


Epicenter

by dimtraces



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Space Opera, M/M, Minor Character Deaths, Slave Castiel, Slow Burn, Soldier Castiel, Space Pirates, Terrorism, extreme liberties taken with the Roman Empire, penal slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2016-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 14:51:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 44,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4839542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dimtraces/pseuds/dimtraces
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After his rebellion fails, Castiel spends his life as a criminal in the arena on planet Sicilia desperately trying to survive another day. He’s resigned to his impending death—no matter how well he fights, and what the law states, no-one would let a traitor leave the coliseum a free man. Until one day, the captain of the pirate spaceship Impala arranges to buy him as a slave, to increase his crew’s manpower.</p><p>Little does Dean Winchester know that by saving Castiel, he creates a symbol of resistance that will end up threatening the entire empire.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thieves like us

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this bit:  
> Dean uses slurs like idiot and bitch, both in dialogue and in narration.  
> Organized dehumanization mentioned

 

 _(I have walked in your streets_  
_with no eyes on my face_  
_and not once have I seen one single hint of grace)_  

 **Time: ante diem quintum decimum kalendas oktober, anno 2761.** **05:46:30,027 Roman standard time.**  
**Location: planet Sicilia, troposphere ferry line EN-64 en-route to Syracusae city.**

 

Dean once again curses Bela Talbot for setting the meeting on fucking Sicilia, of all planets. Dean’s not comfortable so close to the empire’s center at the best of times, and Sicilia not even a year after some captain attempted to kill Michael’s cousin—and succeeded in killing most of his bodyguards and the local head honcho—is hardly prime vacation season. But no, Bela doesn’t frequent ‘the kind of barbarian dive-bars your ilk tend to favor’ (seriously, what the fuck?!) and so Dean has a choice between flogging their loot somewhere sensible for a shit price or chancing a visit to the hornet’s nest.

There’s no reason to tempt fate more than he’s already doing, so Dean’s alighted the Impala somewhere in the countryside, alone. He might’ve felt more secure with someone by his side, sure, but one guy won’t draw the kind of attention a group would on a planet as braced for rebellion as Sicilia.

Who knew sensible thinking would be so fucking inconvenient, though? First, Dean’s had to walk to the closest town and now he’s got to get on a frigging troposphere ferry, of all things, for a ten-hour trip. It’s not like Dean didn’t think this through, but abstractly planning to take a single-planet ship from the comfort of the Impala is very different from actually stepping foot on a barely functional flying sardine can.

Tropos—especially cheap tropos like this one—are one of the most uncomfortable modes of transportation known to man. They smell like chemical air freshener (if you’re lucky) and like kerosene (if, like Dean, you aren’t). They’re bumpy flyers, not smooth like real ships. A cabin costs an arm and a leg and if you don’t take one, like Dean, your only hope is that the guy who just jostled you simply got pushed on the overcrowded deck or slipped on whatever disgusting substances coat the floor, that he isn’t instead pickpocketing the gems and the top secret map you’re travelingall the way to hell for. Dean quickly pads the front of his jacket while making a show of getting cough drops out of his jean pocket. No, they’re still there. Plus, at best a tropo cruises at around 45k feet, and that just isn’t a height you’re meant to fly at. Interstellar ships like the Impala, hell, even a decent meso ship almost never crash with a halfway competent pilot, but tropos are nothing but flying death traps.

When Dean finally arrives at Syracusae, his shirt’s dripping with sweat and only partly because the ship was crammed with more way people than is regulation.

Syracusae is literally a breath of fresh air.

Dean’s conscious of not being memorable, so he stays with the group of passengers walking along the main road to central Syracusae. His feet are already fucking killing him after standing for ten hours. But anyone who can afford a taxi wouldn’t have taken that piece of shit tropo in the first place, so Dean’s stuck. At least the restaurant Bela picked looks to have some sweet armchairs in a corner, according to Charlie who scoped it out.

The streets are bustling in the late afternoon sun, but either the soldiers are all decked out in civvies or there just aren’t that many around. For a planet still under martial law, Sicilia seems pretty calm.

Just because it’s not the hair-trigger hellhole Dean’s expected doesn’t mean he’s any happier being there, though. A ship-borne life might mean constant danger, but it’s also incredible freedom compared to stratified empire society. Dean can tell exactly who the empire citizens you defer to if you want to keep your head are, and he does without even grimacing because he’s pretty attached to his head, thank you. He can see the commoners, and the poor birds with their faces crossed out, scurrying around with their heads lowered for fear of seeming defiant. As vicious as pirates are, you have to be a special kind of twisted to think of this: that some people, just because they couldn’t pay their debts or had to steal to keep their children alive, simply aren’t people anymore, and that you can do to them whatever you want.

Captain Castiel, whoever he had been, had had the right idea, Dean thinks. This place is rotten, and someone ought to take a sword to every son of a bitch who made it that way.

Lost in thought, Dean notices he’s already passed the restaurant Bela’s designated as meeting place only when he’s almost in the old quarter. He curses under his breath. He’s meticulously prepared this mission, even committing maps to memory just in case so he won’t look like a tourist and draw attention. He doesn’t doubt his crew would try to get him out if it goes wrong, and he doesn’t even doubt they’ll succeed. It’s just way easier being a pirate in the middle of a heavily policed empire if no-one thinks about you very much. A fumble on Sicilia is the last thing they need. Dean’s got to get his head in the game. Because Bela’s a shark, and a hell-bitch, and she would sell him out to the highest bidder on a whim.

He banishes all thoughts of rebellion or captains from his head and walks into a side alley to discreetly turn around.

~

Bela’s already sitting in a well-lit corner by the fountain when Dean arrives, sipping a cocktail. She has the personality of a smug viper, but optically, she’s the kind of woman Dean wouldn’t mind a roll in the hay with. Even with the wool coat she’s slung over the back of her chair, whose only purpose it is to tell people that she can afford to blow a shitload of money on clothes that aren’t even suited for this planet’s climate. She’s hot, and she knows it, and she’ll draw you in until you look at her too long and notice the cracks. The fake eye’s well done, Dean’ll give her that, and the left half of her face is expertly covered with makeup, but how inconspicuous the giant acid burn scar is doesn’t do anything for the creep factor: No matter how animatedly she talks, half her face just won’t move.

Dean’s not prejudiced against grotesque looking people, by the way. Bela’s evil just happens to show on her face. Dean had Bela checked out, back before they did the first deal with her, and on Britannia there’s a graveyard with a couple of Talbots she put there herself. No, Bela’s not just unpleasant, she’s a cold-blooded parricide, and Dean wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot-pole if she wasn’t the only one buying the really expensive stolen goods.

Dean gives the comfy armchairs one last wistful look and walks over.

“Dean Winchester, at last! I was about to send search parties out in case you’d navigated yourself to the wrong galaxy,” Bela exclaims in obvious mock delight. She’s actually an awesome actor (and she’d have to be, since no-one’s killed her yet for being an affront to human decency), but Dean made the mistake of asking her to tone down the sarcasm once. “Do order yourself something to drink.”

Dean picks up the menu, flips to the drinks section, looks at it and gulps. He’s not actually poor as such. Piracy pays. He just isn’t into the idea of paying more for a glass of water than he’d pay on his home planet Pontus for an entire meal, pie included. Since it’s still the cheapest thing on there, it’ll have to do.

Bela waves down a waitress before turning back to Dean. “Ah, _water_. Business not going so well, then? Did you make the mistake of going to Cyrenaica? I warned you it’s not a good time right now, Lucifer’s still pacifying.”

“Business is going _awesome_ ,” Dean says icily. “Can’t complain at all. Though, speaking of pacifying. Just tell me one thing, Bela. This meeting had to happen in Syracusae why exactly? To harass me? Or do you honestly think it’s clever to set up a business in stolen goods in the center of the empire? On a planet under martial law. Everyone’s suspicious and I had to take a goddamn _tropo_ to get here so I wouldn’t get noticed,” Dean hisses. “Can’t be easy running a fencing business under these circumstances. You should move.”

Bela smirks, the right side of her face shifting. “Scared, Dean? I’d have thought that a big scary pirate captain—“

“Jesus Christ! Say it louder, why don’t you!”

“—that a big scary completely innocent traveler wouldn’t be completely terrified of a weekend in functioning society. I might have been wrong. But I’m not relocating, the food here is just scrumptious and you don’t get hairdressers like this anywhere else. And the state of emergency is as good as over. Any day now Captain Castiel will drop dead in the arena and the last sorry pieces of this revolt will have crumbled to dust.”

Wait a second.

“The captain’s still alive? Didn’t they make an announcement about how any conspirators would ‘rue the day they chose to sully our beloved Sicilia, crown jewel of Michael’s realm’, or some bullshit like that? They sent messengers out into the whole empire, even. I live on a ship and I’ve heard of this,” Dean says. He might not be a model citizen, but even he’s not too dumb to know these things affect business. And Sam chewed his ear off when Castiel killed that bitch, what’s her name.

“You’ve overlooked a small but vital detail, Dean. The law is trial by combat here on Sicilia. Well, it’s trial by combat almost everywhere. I can see how you could have become confused.”

“You know what I mean, Bela. Traitors get skinned alive and made into effigies Mikey burns at the parade, and that’s if they’re lucky.”

“If he was one of us, yes. But Castiel—he’s empire. Unless they prove the universe has forsaken him, his death won’t be _proper_.”

“How’s that going then? It’s been ten months and he’s still alive.”

“Good fighter, obviously. No-one expected him to last this long. It’ll be interesting what they try next—I hear he doesn’t even get his own sword anymore. The coliseum master is probably already planning his own funeral. If he makes it to a year and gets freed as someone favored by the cosmos, the emperor won’t be happy at all… But anyway. Not that this small talk wasn’t absolutely darling.” Bela’s fake left eye glints. “You’ve brought the gifts, haven’t you?”

Dean nods and pulls the sack out of his breast pocket. “Yes. Your daddy sends his regards, he’s devastated he couldn’t leave Britannia but you know how the harvest is, they need every man”. This part’s the easy bit. Just keep saying some intentionally vague bullshit (if he’s letting Bela know he’s onto her that’s just a bonus). Not even Bela is brazen enough to discuss the details of what Dean’s selling her out in public, no matter how many times she insists she’s ‘gently persuaded’ the staff to leave her alone. No, Sam negotiated the deal a few weeks ago, safely ensconced on the Impala. This is just a hostage exchange. They don’t even need to check contents—if Bela dupes them, Dean’s got enough contacts in the business world to discredit her and vice versa. Shame, though. Why the fuck Bela needs a map of troop movements so desperately she’s willing to drop more cash on it than on the rare gems from a lost-to-the-empire province is something he’d love to ask.

“Thank you from the bottom of my heart. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.” Bela pulls a small gift box out of her coat pocket and slides it over. “Be a dear and give this to your mother for me, Dean.” _The bitch._

Bela pats her purse and smiles. “Always a pleasure doing business with you, captain. I’ll even pick up the tab for you. Au revoir, my dear.” She looks towards the door, her left eye staying still. “Unless you want to repay my generosity another way? I’ve had my townhouse especially outfitted. I hear you like chains.”

Dean reins in his temper at the last second. Deep breaths. He should be over this. _Do you like it, Dean? Good boy. Make her scream, or I will. We’ll be together forever. Your daddy’s left you here to rot_ —

Deep breaths. “Pleasure’s mutual. Oh, and do you happen know—the coliseum, are the fights every week? When?” He almost can’t hear the way his voice shakes. A distraction will do him good.

~

If Dean had been a sensible man, he’d have left this cesspool with the next ship. But he’s a dumbass, and knowing the next gladiator fight is tomorrow is just too good an opportunity to pass up.

Sam had gone through a phase of thinking the empire was reformable, and had even left the Impala to try and make a difference years ago, after a particularly vicious fight with their dad about whether to execute citizens on sight. Stupid, yes—Dad wouldn’t stand for it, an empire bomb had killed Mom after all, and Sam had come back with his tail between his legs when it hadn’t worked out. Still, he followed political news religiously, and as a result Dean knew the scattered pockets of resistance as well as the Impala’s performance stats.

The foiled coup on Sicilia had been huge news. One of the emperor’s favourites almost assassinated, the praetor dead. It plunged the whole planet into chaos, though that was suppressed quickly when emperor Michael sent a few garrisons in.Two Sicilian captains were caught and tried as ringleaders, and until a few hours ago Dean had been convinced they’d both died for it, but that wasn’t important. The main point was that they’d almost succeeded. The most serious challenge to the empire in living memory. And now Dean has the opportunity to see the scourge of Sicilia up close.

Dean will have to have words with Sam about the value of comfort in mission planning, though. He’s a spaceship captain, he doesn’t walk for hours on end. His feet are killing him. It’s just not natural, man should only have to walk a few feet while the machine under him does the real work.

But he can’t risk sleeping rough with what amounts to his crew’s salary for the next year. Or being caught, again. He doesn’t know how Bela found out about Alistair, but bringing him up didn’t do anything for his state of mind. He’ll have to find a room somewhere. So why is the only motel he knows anything about in the frigging industrial zone? Albeit one that Charlie deemed ‘super duper inconspicuous’ and therefore part of contingency plan E.

Dean sincerely hopes this Castiel guy will be worth wearing holes in his boots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next few updates should be quick-ish, I’m only tidying them up. I plotted everything already because I was worried I’d run out of steam, this is the first time I’ve tried actually writing something down after all. Still, new characters and tags will be added when chapters are posted.
> 
> An intergalactic pirate/slave au feat space romans aka let's see how many tropes I can cram into a single fanfic, basically. Surprisingly much research is involved, for how inaccurate everything is. The roman empire shtick is in this for one main reason: I’m really awful at names, and picking locations at random from a Wikipedia map takes me no time whatsoever.
> 
> I love Bela! She’ll keep showing up, even if Dean doesn’t like her very much.
> 
> The chapter title’s a New Order song
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> ETA 2016-04-09: added Time/Location header and subtitle (which is from the Indelicates' I Don't Care If It's True).


	2. Justice! The fate of criminals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Violence. Sexual assault verbally implied.

_(so you’re proud of your plan, the way you kept it in hand_  
_all life is sacred except your fellow man)_

 **Time: a. d. xiv kal. okt., anno 2761.** **15:02:43,957 RST.**  
**Location** **:** **Sicilia, Syracusae city, _Perseverance of the Just_ coliseum.**

 

“Jesus, look where you’re going! This jacket cost money, don’t spill your fucking soda on me,” Dean shouts. The guy who bumped into him shoots him an angry look and continues down the bleachers, wallet in his back pocket easy prey for anyone with sticky fingers. Ten sestertii, not bad at all.

Dean’s happy about any distractions. He’s long since finished his overpriced fries and he’s been waiting forever now. He got to the coliseum an hour early, since he didn’t have anything to do in Syracusae and wanted to grab a good seat before everyone else showed up to watch Castiel’s possible death. No point in having stayed if he can’t see, after all. He needn’t have bothered, it’s about to start now and he can still see a few empty seats. Sam would be crushed. He’d almost idolized the guy. Out here in the real world though, Castiel obviously was just a minor distraction and the world has moved on.

Finally, the video screens switch from ads to a tall, balding man. The caption tells Dean that it’s Zachariah, the High Justice of Sicilia (aka the dude pocketing this joint’s profits). No last name. Figures that he’d be military. “Hello and welcome to the Syracusae coliseum, the main court and finest entertainment complex on all of Sicilia. Today, twelve criminals in five fights shall be judged.

“The first fight today is between Ava Wilson, murder.” She’s a pretty young woman, heart-shaped face. Doesn’t look that strong. The screen shows a recap of her case, so people will know it’s just deserts if she dies or something. “Mathew Grossman, tax evasion. Gadreel, betrayal of state secrets.” The screen shows an old man and a tall, muscular guy. “And the traitor Castiel. To the death.”

Castiel’s scrawnier than Dean imagined him, that’s for sure. He’s got unkempt brown hair, and tired blue eyes, and under his scars and cuts and faded bruises Dean can see his ribs. He doesn’t look strong enough to beat three people bare-handed. Hell, he barely looks strong enough for one.

When he lifts his head, though, and defiantly looks at the camera—Dean literally shudders. He can’t help feeling as if Castiel’s looking right at him, looking right at his soul. That’s stupid, though, and when Dean checks the arena it turns out he’s just looking at Zachariah.

This apparently isn’t one of the fancy fights, where they test weird new weapons on unlucky criminals. Just good old-fashioned swords.

Not that Dean’s ever seen a live fight. He’s always been too busy for that kinda bullshit, even as a kid, what with growing up on a spaceship and raising Sammy practically by himself and all. Plus, he’s a commoner and a career criminal. No way would he get a trial before execution. So no point in knowing coliseums on that front either. Besides, gladiator fights are the adult equivalent of pulling wings off flies in Dean’s opinion, and if he wanted to watch people whimpering in pain for fun he could just go back to Alistair.

Dean looks back down. Three on one, huh? And yeah, Dean can’t see anything in the ex-captain’s hand, either, while his opponents all have gleaming swords. Bela wasn’t kidding. They are really running him ragged.

Though the old guy and the girl do look pretty terrified. They aren’t leaving alive, and they know it. For all the bragging about how fucking advanced the empire is, their justice system isn’t very concerned with actually, you know, judging crimes. If you can handle your weapon you’ll get off basically scot-free for whatever—unless you’re stupid and piss off the people in power, in which case they’ll starve you and forget to give you a weapon or something. But for a weakling—non-soldiers, pretty much—the arena is an automatic death sentence, whether you’re a rapist or just forgot to pay your taxes. Dean knows that apparently combat is one of the ways the universe judges your worth, though, just like having money. And if the universe disliked you enough to make you starve, why would it change its mind when it came to the arena?

What a crock of shit.

The crowd starts cheering, the fight must’ve started.

Castiel’s obviously done this before. While the old dude still gapes up at the stands in panic, his eyes quickly dart between his opponents. He must have decided that that Ava chick is easiest to overpower.

He miscalculated.

Ava’s ready, and Castiel barely manages to duck out of the way of her sword. He doesn’t have anything to deter her with, so he dances backwards while she swings her weapon at him. She’s not a pro by any means, but she isn’t bad either, and when Castiel missteps she manages to graze his calf.

Dean’s braced for the end already, but the captain pivots past the next blow, and the next, and the next.

He’s fast as hell, and showing no sign of exhaustion, but he can’t win a fight like this.

He just needs a couple more mistakes—there, Ava got his forearm, too—and it’s game over, folks.

Cheers erupt in the stadium. Apparently, the soldier has managed to kill the old guy. The tax evader didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell, Dean can’t even see any scratches on the soldier. Damn, this isn’t good news for Castiel at all. Two good opponents, who by the looks of it have decided to finish off Castiel next.

The soldier stalks towards Castiel, whose back is turned, fully focused on avoiding the chick’s stabs. He raises his sword—

“Look out!” Dean shouts, and—

Castiel dives, grabbing Ava’s ankle and pulling her. She stumbles forward. She flails with her sword, trying to regain balance, but still the soldier’s sword tears into her left shoulder. She howls in pain and presses her right hand against her clavicle.

Castiel’s rolled out of the way, and is unsteadily getting back on his feet.

The soldier drops his sword and staggers backwards. On the screen, Dean can see a red stain spread on his chest, sword still stuck. The chick’s flailing must have hit him—and hit him hard. From the placement, Dean’s guessing she punctured a lung.

The camera focuses on his face, dazed with pain, spraying droplets of blood with every gasp.

Castiel’s already moving. It must hurt to run so fast with a bad leg, but he’s reached the old guy’s body in no time, taking his sword.

He returns, his maimed enemies still trying to control the pain.

He swings his sword and beheads the soldier.

Ava’s picked up the soldier’s sword, but it doesn’t help her, either. She’s unsteady on her feet, hurt and exhausted, and Castiel slices open her stomach with ease. She collapses.

Dean can’t believe his eyes. The captain took them down like it was nothing. Dean prides himself on his fighting skills, but he’s not too proud to admit that had he been facing off againstt he guy, Castiel might have still won, even handicapped like this. The man’s a machine.

Zachariah looks angry but resigned as he announces Castiel’s victory.

The crowd cheers.

Down in the arena, Castiel drops the sword and kneels down next to the dying woman.

~

Castiel has spent more time on battlefields or preparing for battle than he can remember. He’s been ordered to lay waste to entire planets. Innumerable enemies have perished at his hand.

Still, there is something about the claustrophobic arena that renders killing more intimate. More real.

Before, Castiel was tasked with keeping order in the empire, and he knew that it was good. Yes, Castiel felt remorse, and he didn’t understand why children would deserve death, he didn’t want to kill the children, he avoided killing them wherever possible, he conspired to make the senseless murder _stop_. But it wasn’t anything like this.

Now, there is no difference between him and his enemies. This isn’t about loyalty or righteousness, and he’s facing but unlucky people who only wish to survive. He’s no better than them. He’s just faster.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and severs her carotid artery to ease her suffering.

Three nameless people lie before Castiel, and more nameless people will join them.

He turns to limp out of the gate.

~

Dean watches the captain pray over his dead opponents and walk out of the arena, presumably to the prison cell he’ll be stashed in until the next fight.

This can’t be it, it just can’t. This isn’t how the story should end.

It’s a criminal waste of Castiel’s fighting skills, for starters.

Dean’s watched a shitload of people demonstrate their weapons handling recently. His crew’s been short two people ever since a robbery last year went wrong big time, leaving Isaac dead and his widow too miserable to stay on the Impala. None of the potential recruits managed to even graze Jo with her right harm tied behind her back. None of them fought half as well as Castiel either, though. Here he is, the perfect fighter, and he’s just entertaining a few thousand people a week who decided to take a break from television tonight or mini golf or whatever.

Until he inevitably slips up, dies and is forgotten completely.

This can’t be the end.

A new fight is announced, between an embezzler and a dude who repackaged unsold perishables until he killed a couple of people via food poisoning.

Dean leaves. Why do people pay money for this? Shit’s just depressing.

He worms his way out of the bleachers, jostling past a couple who seem to have decided that this is wholesome family entertainment. They even brought a toddler, maybe to demonstrate they’ve got money to blow on pointless admission fees. There’s no way the kid’s getting anything out of this. A bird girl’s there too, her brand nearly obscured by her hair as she tends to the baby. She doesn’t look very old. Dean wonders what she could have done do get this kinda punishment.

Wait a second.

No, that’s stupid, right? But people are made unpeople for all sorts of crimes. Murder, larceny, whatever. Jo swears she almost got done for possession of an officer’s sword once, and then she picked the handcuffs and stole a new one on her way out.

Castiel committed  _treason_.

Convincing the authorities that being sentenced to combat is way too generous should be easy as pie.

When Dean gets Castiel declared below the law, he can buy him. And voilà, Dean gets to take him out of here and once they’re alone, he can offer the guy a space on the Impala. And with Castiel’s fighting skills on board (there’s no way he’d turn down the offer, Dean’s ship is awesome) they’ll be nigh unbeatable. Everyone’s a winner. Fool-proof plan.

Dean’s a genius.

Now he just has to go see a pompous jackass about a guy.

~

Security inside is lax, and Dean barely has to sneak past the guards to get to the loge from which Zachariah announces the fights.

He pauses for a second to open his jacket—it’s as nondescript as possible and Zachariah won’t respect him if he doesn’t look like a citizen, at least. Dean wore a nice dead guy shirt in case Bela’s joint was classier than it looked on the net though. He took it off a colonel who surrendered, so it doesn’t even have any tears or big stains. Not that surrendering stopped John Winchester from shooting him in the head.

He clears his throat an offers his hand when Zachariah turns around. “Justice Zachariah? It’s good to meet you. My name is Robert Plant. I’m a Dalmatia based businessman, and I have a proposition to you that’ll be worth your while,” Dean says, affecting a soft accent.

Zachariah signals for another guy to take his place and turns towards Dean. “It’s my pleasure, Mr Plant. What brings you here to Sicilia?”

“I heard you received the honor of overseeing the villain Castiel’s punishment, and I had to see for myself. You’re doing an admirable job. A man like that shouldn’t be allowed to live, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Certainly, certainly.”

“This man betrayed the cousin to our most beloved emperor.” Dean shouldn’t be laying it on so thick. Surely, no-one in the universe actually loves Michael, the douchebag.

“Yes, Castiel committed the most heinous of crimes, I agree. But that doesn’t tell me why you’re here.”

“Gladiatorial combat isn’t the worst punishment in our arsenal. Castiel earned _proscription_. He doesn’t deserve to be a person anymore, he should be cast out from our society. You have the authority to punish criminals however you see fit—sell him to me. For a lucrative sum, that goes without saying.”

Gotcha. At the mention of money, Zachariah visibly starts considering the offer. “I see what you mean, certainly. Slavery as punishment for a crime—that has precedent, for the rabble. But Castiel, he’s a captain. Only when he proves unworthy and falters in the arena, he can be punished. And even then, proscription isn’t a sentence established for citizens.”

“Hasn’t Castiel proven himself unworthy already? This isn’t just any criminal. Castiel is a traitor to our empire and to our emperor, who deserves our complete and utmost respect and obedience.” Dean gags internally. “Castiel betrayed us all, in the worst way possible. He murdered the praetor. Military or no, unprecedented or no. No-one would fault you for imposing proscription.”

Zachariah’s still dragging his feet, though. Time to bring out the big guns.

“I’ve heard them everywhere. The rumors. About how you’ve sent Castiel out barely healed, given him faulty equipment. Given him no equipment. And they’re not even rumors, they’re true. When Castiel dies, what do you think the people will say? That he’s been justly punished, or that Castiel was favored the cosmos and so you had to _manipulate_ the trial to give him death? Because else he would have lived, have walked free? If Castiel dies in the arena, you know you’ll create a martyr.

“But if you sell him—“ Dean looks Zachariah square in the eye. This part is vital. Zachariah’s hooked, but if he thinks about it more carefully he’ll realize that it would be idiotic to give a traitor captain to some guy who could be anyone, could even be part of the conspiracy. Dean’s got no references. He’s got charisma in spades though, and that’ll be enough. “If you sell him. If you place him under proscription, you’ll show the people just how low treason has brought him. Everyone knows what happens to proscripts, and he’s real pretty. No, I guarantee you, if you declare him an unperson and sell him to me, you’ll quell any rebellion left. This is a fate worse than death, and everyone knows it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proscription is very vaguely based on the imperial ban (I know, the holy Roman Empire's not antique Rome, but there's no historical accuracy here anyway). In German, people placed under it are called vogelfrei (“free as a bird”), and that’s why the slang term for slave is bird.
> 
> The chapter title (ETA: and subtitle) is from Fate of Criminals by the Adverts, and in my mind it's screamed like in the actual song https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kAVImbUkMHM
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> ETA 2016-04-09: added Time/Location subheader.


	3. Walk on out into a brand-new day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Dehumanization, violence.

_(schemes and dreams and just a little more  
to keep the wolf howling outside your door)_

**Time:** **a. d. xiv kal. Okt, anno 2761,** **17:12:09,764 RST.  
** **Location: _Perseverance of the Just_ stadium.**

 

Castiel’s aching everywhere when he lies down in his cell.

He can’t remember why he fought so hard to survive, now, but he knows that come next week, he’ll do it again. Maybe he doesn’t want to have killed Uriel for no reason, to have killed so many other gladiators just so he can give up now.

Castiel is so tired.

~

Dean can’t believe the kind of idiots they’re letting do important jobs these days. Zachariah didn’t just swallow his words hook, line and sinker, he’s genuinely into the idea. All it took was implying the frailty of the empire’s power base a few times, and pretending for a sec that he’s the kind of monster who’d abuse a bird. Dean’s officially the king of bullshit.

Either Zachariah’s too dumb to breathe, or he just doesn’t give a fuck as long as he gets Castiel taken off his hands. Actually, that’s probably more likely: He doesn’t get anything out of the gladiator except a few extra gawpers like Dean shelling out for tickets, and Raphael must be breathing down his neck about Castiel’s continued survival. Plus, at the rate Castiel is running them through, there soon won’t be any criminals left on Sicilia, and that’s bad for Zachariah’s business.

Dean didn’t even have to provide proof he’s who he said he is. Or that he’s on Sicilia legally. Or an empire citizen for that matter. Or that he isn’t carrying a weapon, or that he wouldn’t enjoy stabbing Zachariah in his smug face with his hidden knife.

He might have to fork over a metric fucktonne of money, though.

“I’m sure you understand, a slave like Castiel is worth more than your run-of-the-mill commoner. He’s versatile, a learned man, as well as strong enough for you to work him in a mine should you choose to. Not to mention his—ah—other assets you implied an interest in. For 4,000 denarii, he’ll be yours,” Zachariah says.

“I could go to any court and get at least three slaves for that. Just as strong ones,” Dean guesses. He’s never had to know that kind of info. That’s a fucking huge amount of cash. Like, ten annual wages huge. Ten _soldier’s_ wages. Thank fuck for the deal with Bela. After he pays up, he’ll be broke as hell, though.

“Ah, but they’ll be _common_. This is a one-time deal, you’ll never get a slave of Castiel’s stock anywhere else. I’m not letting him go for less than 3,700 denarii.”

What a prick. This was Dean’s idea in the first place, and now Zachariah’s trying to make money off of it.

“I see your point. Before he spent a year as your chew-toy, he might well have been worth the full price,” Dean says. “But by now he’s damaged goods. If we factor in depreciation, at best his value is about 2,000 bucks.”

Zachariah doesn’t seem as offended by that as Dean feared. “He might have gotten knocked in the head a few times, but that is nothing a few day’s rest won’t fix. He’s been in a worse state, he bounces back.”

“Still, he seems pretty wilful. Not at all cowed. If I get one from the market, I’ll at least know he won’t try to kill me in my sleep.”

“Breaking them in is the fun part, especially with someone like Castiel. Did you know, I used to serve with him before he got sentenced? I have half a mind to keep him and do it myself.”

 _Hell no_.

“How about 3,500 denarii?” Dean says.

They shake on it.

Dean feels kinda dirty haggling like this about the price of an actual human being. But what the hell. He’ll be dirty no matter what. He’s giving Zachariah his hard-earned cash for being an absolute monster, after all. He should at least try to reward him as little as possible.

~

When two guards enter his cell, Castiel’s on edge. Usually they let him tend to his wounds in peace for a few hours. Any break in routine is bad.

They tell him to get on his feet, and when he doesn’t move fast enough one of them pokes him with a sword. Castiel doesn’t care. They’re walking towards the arena. Obviously they decided he wasn’t dying fast enough. They’re making him fight again.

Castiel knows that this time will be the last time.

Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t walk any faster. The woman he fought today grazed his calf. He hit his head. His arm is still bleeding sluggishly. Not bad injuries, everything considered, but every second of lowered reaction time is an extra second in which someone can stick their sword in you.

Castiel is going to die.

They don’t bother giving him a sword, but they haven’t in a while. They just grab his arms and pull him into the arena.

They don’t let him go.

Zachariah’s down here, and another man. The man doesn’t have a weapon, and he isn’t wearing armour like a guard. Just a leather jacket. The man looks at his face, green eyes wide. He doesn’t look like a criminal.

Castiel doesn’t understand.

No-one stabs him. They wouldn’t though. Why would they? It would be as good as admitting he can’t be beaten in fair combat, that he didn’t actually do anything wrong.

There’s a fire in front of Castiel. Another guard is there, holding something into the fire. Someone holds a camera.

He can hear noises from the stands. They are shouting. Something is going to happen.

Zachariah looks at the camera and starts talking. “We have been lenient towards those who would see our empire fall for long enough, but not anymore. By committing treason against our praetor and our empire, Castiel has forfeit his citizenship. He has forfeit the protection of our laws. He has forfeit personhood. For his crimes against the empire, Castiel deserves proscription: From today—”

No.

“—Castiel ceases to be a person in the eye of the law.”

No, please no.

“As he is property, I sell Castiel to Robert Plant to do with as he wishes. May the whole world see what becomes of traitors.”

_Please._

Castiel becomes aware he’s making noises, he’s trying to shake off the guards, but to no avail. Zachariah keeps talking.

The guard with the brand comes towards him. He presses the red-hot iron to his face, once, twice. Castiel doesn’t feel anything.

He is ruined.

~

Dean knows what slavery entails, like, academically. It’s a fact of life, anyone who grows up anywhere in the empire knows about it, and those who don’t tend to catch up real quick when they get branded themselves. It’s just what happens when you mess up and don’t run away fast enough, if you’re common and get a dickhead judge. When Dean was ten and accidentally killed the Impala’s engine while they were doing a hit’n’run, his dad shouted at him for two hours about what they would do to a boy like Dean if he got caught.

Still, nothing could have prepared him for the smell of burning flesh as Castiel is branded in front of him, or the man’s howl of anguish.

Castiel had started struggling midway through Zachariah’s pompous speech, but he isn’t now. Just rocking softly and whimpering. If the guards weren’t holding him up, he’d probably collapse to the ground.

Dean feels like he should avert his eyes, that he shouldn’t gawp at his pain—at this incredibly intimate moment, but he can’t look away.

Anyway, it’s done. Castiel is an unperson now, and Dean can’t show any weakness. If Zachariah cottons on to the fact that Dean feels any sympathy for the disgraced captain, this rescue mission’s over. Dean will go to prison, and Zach will have all the time in the world to break his ex-comrade as he sees fit. Judging from the way he leers at Castiel’s expression of terror, Dean’s guessing it wouldn’t be pretty.

Zachariah grabs Castiel’s face and twists it towards the camera so the brand is clearly displayed, Zachariah’s grubby fingers pressing into the burn where it extends to Castiel’s jaw. Zachariah keeps holding it still. And keeps holding it.

The angle must hurt Castiel. Touching his wound must be agony. Hell, he’s—he’s trying to draw in air in desperate little gasps. His face is turning red.

Dean can’t watch anymore. “Enough. Don’t suffocate my property.”

Zachariah lets go and motions for a guard to bring a rope. “Courtesy of Syracusae Coliseum. Wouldn’t want our dear Castiel to run off at the first chance, after all,” he says, as the guard yanks the rope around Castiel’s wrists.

Dean takes the end of the rope. It’s probably wound too tight and cutting off blood, but Dean can’t check, not out here. He just wants to get far away from these people, as fast as possible.

He pulls at the rope, and Castiel stumbles, but catches himself and keeps walking.

Dean salutes Zachariah. “Pleasure doing business with you,” he says, and walks out of the arena.

The thirteen minutes until they’ve left the coliseum building are the longest thirteen minutes of Dean’s life. He just wants to get out of here.

If Dean never sees this shithole ever again, it’ll be soon enough.

~

The man who owns Castiel now doesn’t say anything as they leave the building, he doesn’t even shout commands at Castiel. He looks relaxed and smiles at the people they pass, but Castiel has been trained to observe his surroundings, and Castiel has to focus on something to allay his fear now that he has regained control of himself, so he notices the nervousness, the way he keeps glancing at the guards and the gate.

When they have passed the guards, he lets out a deep breath, then pulls Castiel towards the street and hails a taxi. Castiel finds that he is relieved at the prospect of not having to walk on his injured leg, even though the pain had been another excellent distraction from the situation at hand.

But the driver seems reluctant to allow Castiel inside. He touches Castiel’s chest with his index finger. It comes away coated in blood and grime.

The man grins at the taxi driver. He says, “Dude, I see your point, I do. Only the best for the lady. I’ve got a classic ship myself, I wouldn’t want him on her leather seats in this state either. I really gotta get to this business meeting though.” He doesn’t speak like a man who is going to a business meeting, Castiel thinks. The man pulls out ten sestertii out of his wallet. “Here, my treat. Take her to the washing station of your choice after.” He winks. Then, he drops the wallet on the ground. The photo ID in the wallet has a different face on it.

They get in the car.

Castiel watches the man next to him drum his fingers on the taxi armrest in an unfamiliar rhythm. His hands are covered in small, well-healed scars. His watch is black and practical, not ostentatious: at odds with the shirt he is wearing, which Castiel realizes is a very familiar garment. Part of a colonel’s formal uniform. He peers sharply at the man in the stolen clothes with the stolen money, and only after several minutes he realizes that he is meant to be deferential as a slave. But the man doesn’t notice, he is avoiding looking at Castiel. Currently he’s alternating between staring at the streets and glancing at the meter. He is talking to the driver about how the streets are too crowded, about overpopulation and how the driver is worried the grain prices will rise even more. The man who is now fidgeting with Castiel’s leash nods and responds at the appropriate times, but he seems distracted to Castiel.

Maybe he is planning what to do when they—no, Castiel will not think those things now.

He will be calm.

Castiel is well practiced in controlling his mind. He's spent most of his life not thinking things. There is always someone who can tell, and who will correct you. And if they don’t tell, and you keep thinking, start thinking aloud, that’s when it becomes even more dangerous. That’s when you start thinking you can change the natural order.

The coup d’état had seemed so necessary and right, when Castiel and Uriel and Balthazar and Rachel talked in secret about Lilith’s corruption, her sadism and her history. It had seemed just. But then they’d failed, and Castiel was reminded that if the universe thought something was wrong, it wouldn’t be so, and who were they to question the ways of the world.

Now, everyone else is dead, and Castiel is unmade and in the hands of a possible felon. He’d been warned away from thinking again and again, and they’d all been right. It leads to disobedience, to hubris, and if Castiel had listened then maybe he wouldn’t be in this position.

So Castiel is just observing, and he isn’t thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I could keep changing tiny bits forever or I could just post it now. And since I’m guessing that since in a few days there’ll be so much to read that I’ll certainly be distracted, I’d rather post the chapter now (and maybe another one tomorrow? Let’s see) and update less during DCBB
> 
> It’s really fun switching between povs, I hope I’m not overdoing it though!
> 
> Title’s from There’ll Come a Day by the Damned
> 
> Thank you all for reading and kudos and commenting!!


	4. Merciful and mourned and meek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: This is a fairly dark chapter. Dehumanization, sexual assault (interrupted), character misunderstanding a situation and thinking rape will occur (it doesn't), panic attack. Also, Dean keeps using the word "bitch".

By the time they reach the ship station on the edge of Syracusae, it’s almost gone dark. Dean’s memorized the timetable Charlie procured with computer magic before he embarked on this mission, and it looks like their tropo’ll be on time. In half an hour, they’ll leave the city behind at last and maybe Dean can finally relax.

Castiel still hasn’t said a single word to him. He just trudges precisely three paces behind Dean as they walk into the station to buy tickets, like a robot who’s read about slaves in a book and is trying very hard to blend in. He’s probably scared—or rather fucking traumatized, Jesus, Dean can’t get Castiel’s expression when he realized what was happening out of his head. As soon as they’re alone, hopefully Dean’ll manage to calm him down.

“Ooh! He new?” the guy in the queue behind them asks Dean. He eyes Castiel up and down, then grabs his arm and pulls until a startled Castiel turns around. He runs his hand down Cas’ chest. “Needs a bit of work, but then he’ll be a beauty. The things I’d like to do to him… How much did you pay for that?”

Castiel’s back is rigid.

Dean’s had enough. “Hey! Hands off, you prick!”

“Touchy, touchy,” the man mutters, but he lets Castiel go.

Dean catches four more people eyeing up Castiel like a piece of meat, and if the tension radiating off Castiel is anything to go by, he isn’t exactly unaware of what they’re thinking either. Dean glares at every one of them until they look away.

A job well done, Dean thinks, and goes back to counting the minutes until they finally get to leave this godforsaken city.

His hard-won peace doesn’t last.

Castiel jerks. He stumbles, hitting Dean in the shoulder, and if Dean hadn’t reflexively grabbed his arm he’d have bloodied his face on the dirty floor.

The douchebag from ten minutes ago leers and licks his lips.

Dean punches him in the mouth.

“Fuck you! How’s it feel when I decide I can touch just you, asshole? Have enough?” he shouts. “Come on, anyone else wanna cop a feel? Huh?” He pulls the dickhead up by his collar and presses him into the wall. “What do you say?”

“Sorry, sorry. Didn’t know you don’t want people touching your property,” the man wheezes.

Proper—oh, right, yeah, Cas doesn’t have the right not to get sexually harassed anymore, apparently. Dean’s pretending to be a fucking slave-owner. “If I catch you doing that to anyone again, you’ll wish you just had a coupla cuts on your face, you fucking shitbag,” he growls, and lets him go.

Castiel’s watching the scene unfold with wide eyes. When he notices Dean looking at him, he drops them to the floor so fast that Dean almost gets whiplash.

Dean wants to reassure him, but he’s already made a spectacle of himself once now and he would like to leave this room in one piece. So he just bends down to pick up the rope and pulls Castiel over to the counter window.

“The next troposphere ship towards the Sicani mountains, please. Our stop is Enna. Two tickets please, wait, sh—shoot, one regular ticket and one for human property, please,” Dean says.

He’s almost handed the fee to the vendor when a horrible thought strikes him.

Two people have already assaulted Castiel just because, and it’s only been half an hour. Shit. The journey’s twenty times as long, on a dim and crowded deck. At the best of times, Dean couldn’t 100% guarantee his own safety on there, never mind Castiel’s after Dean made a bunch of shit-for-brains really fucking angry. Son of a fucking bitch, this isn’t looking good.

“Wait. Make that a cabin, please,” he says to the vendor.

“Okay, sir. 120 bucks.”

Daylight robbery, that’s what this is. Between the taxi and the extortionist fee for getting Cas outta the arena and now this, Dean might as well have gone to see Bela for free.

“Gonna break him in real good, heh?” the wanna-be rapist shouts, and Dean knows he’s made the right decision.

~

“Gonna break him in real good, heh?” the man who touched Castiel’s backside shouts, and that’s when it registers. His owner rented a cabin.

The man must be rich, even if he is a violent criminal. He took a taxi, he _bought Castiel_. And yet, he rented a cabin, on a cheap troposphere ferry, and you don’t rent those for comfort or sleep. No, you only rent a room on a ferry if you want to protect your family from your fellow travelers or when you need the bed for _other_ things. Castiel’s been told that the engine noise alone is enough to keep you up, or—to camouflage any noises you might make. So you can do the kind of things you need to hide from everyone. Balthazar had taken to making ferry trips every time he wanted to have ménages of variable number while stationed on Sicilia, or so he bragged.

Castiel remembers how the man stared at him in the arena, and shudders.

Oblivious and humming under his breath, his owner pulls Castiel onto the ship by the leash.

He pulls him through the main deck, onwards to the back of the ship and then into a room. There’s nothing special about the room, no windows, metal lining everywhere, the low bed connecting seamlessly to the floor. No place to hide anywhere. Off-white sheets. It almost looks like an officer’s cabin on a war ship. It looks too innocent for the sort of things people do here.

The lock clicks.

“Whew! Finally alone!” Castiel’s owner exclaims, and lets go of the leash. “It’s good to meet you, Castiel.”

After a few seconds, Castiel realizes he was meant to answer. “Hello, master… Plant?” Castiel’s fairly sure it was Plant, even though his memories of… _that moment_ in the arena feel like he is looking at them through water.

“I’m Dean. Dean Winchester,” the man says and smiles. “Good old Bob Plant’s just a cover, you know. Like Clark Kent and Superman. Otherwise they wouldn’t have let me… Anyway, I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s great to meet you.” He holds out his hand.

Castiel stares at it until the man who just casually confessed to a crime looks uncomfortable and lowers it again.

“Right, you probably want the rope off first,” he says. “Hold out your hands.”

Castiel complies. The man who might be called Winchester gently holds them and worries at the knot. “Son of a bitch!” he exclaims as it doesn’t budge, and draws a knife out of his jacket to cut it open. Castiel’s certain that you aren’t allowed to carry weapons on ferries. They passed a metal detector on the way in.

At Castiel’s look, Mr Winchester grins. “Genius, right? It’s pure ceramic, doesn’t trip anything. Try not get thrown around when you carry them, though, the splinters are a bitch to get out.” He puts the knife back.

When the rope finally comes off, Castiel winces. His rubs his hands together to get the circulation going again, and it hurts.

“I knew that son of a bitch would tie the rope too tight!” Mr Winchester says. “Sorry, dude… Wow, this is kinda strange. My brother went through a phase a while back, he was pretty much doodling Mrs Castiel into his diary—he’s a rebellion groupie, real into empire politics, what can you do? Drove Dad completely mad. He was more the burn everything to the ground himself type. Though come to think of it, didn’t you set fire to praetor Lilith’s palace after sealing the exits? Maybe you’d have gotten along, then.”

Castiel stares.

“Sorry, I’m didn’t mean to go all fanboy on you there, it’s just—this is kinda weird, talking to you. You’re a really big deal out there. Terror of the emperor and everything, you know?”

Castiel doesn’t know, and he doesn’t say anything.

“… Right. You probably—well, you look pretty beat up. Let’s get a look at you.” Winchester looks at the bed and grimaces. “Bedspread’s germy as hell, I’m betting, but beggars can’t be choosers, eh? Come on, sit down.”

So this is it. Castiel should be grateful he’s been given a—confusing—reprieve, that instead of just throwing him on the bed and… doing things to him, he talked first, he should be grateful that at least he got rid of the rope. Castiel doesn’t feel grateful. He just feels blank.

“Come on, Cas.”

No point in putting off the inevitable. Castiel pulls down his threadbare pants.

“Jesus! I did not need to see that!” Mr Winchester shouts.

Castiel squints at the unexpected reaction. Maybe he should clarify the situation first. “Do people not usually take their clothes off for copulation?”

“Yes, people—wait, why’re you talking about sex?!”

“You brought me here. That’s what the cabins are for, clandestinely achieving sexual gratification.”

“Dude, that’s just—really?”

Castiel is at a loss how to explain his reasoning to this strange man. Maybe one of those euphemisms Balthazar was fond of will help. “Yes, when you ‘create an animal with two legs’ and do not wish to disturb others with the shouting.”

“It’s backs, you weirdo.” The man laughs. “You’ve never actually done it, have you?”

This line of enquiry is disconcerting. Castiel’s face grows warm. He rubs his neck.

“Jesus, that’s—you’re a virgin?! Really?”

“I joined the army when I was fourteen. I was _busy_ ,” Castiel hisses. Balthazar had teased him, too, but Castiel had never found anyone he wanted to have sexual intercourse with. Not that that matters anymore.

“Who’s _too busy_ for _sex_?”

“Leading a garrison to pacify the eastern provinces is not _easy_. You can’t be distracted. You can’t leave. I haven’t had time to visit my parents in years.”

“Still, it’s not like sex is a second job. Bad sex takes like four minutes, I’m not even suggesting you go have a cuddle after. Surely you could have penciled that in!”

Castiel will not be mocked. He crowds the insolent man against the wall and growls: “I’m a soldier. I’ve killed more people than you’ve ever met. I could kill you right now. You should show me some respect!”

Winchester stares at him.

His owner looks shocked. He—this man owns him. He just threatened _his owner_.

This man will do whatever he wants with Castiel, and he has provoked him.

He bought him, and he locked them in a cabin, and he has a knife, and he made Castiel go on the bed and touched him, and he has a knife, and he is looking at him, and Castiel threatened him, and he has a knife, and Castiel, Castiel will never get away from him, even if Castiel makes it to the door, even if Castiel runs, outside there are more people who can do anything to him, and he will never get away, he will never be safe, Castiel will always be a slave, he will always belong to people who will touch him against his will.

Castiel will never be safe again.

~

Dean watches Castiel cower on the floor, clawing at his face, rocking back and forth.

Fuck, Dean’s a prick. What kind of monster argues with their—with a man who thinks Dean owns—what horrible person argues with their _slave_ about _sex_?!

Castiel had taken off his pants—he’d thought—

Dean wants to throw up.

“Cas? Shit, Cas, I’m so fucking sorry!”

Castiel doesn’t react. Only a low whine when his fingernail catches in the dead charred skin on his cheek.

“Shit, don’t do that, you’ll get it infected!” Dean grabs Castiel’s hands and tries to hold them still.

Castiel’s arms jerk, but not like he is trying to fight Dean off. He doesn’t seem aware of anything.

“Sorry, man, I’m not doing anything to you, okay? I just don’t want you to hurt yourself. I’ve got some Betadine, I’ll put it on and then leave you alone, okay?”

Gradually, Castiel stops moving enough that Dean dares let go of his hands.

“Right, I’ll just—okay. Castiel, I’m going to touch your face, okay? I want to put antiseptic on the burn.”

Castiel stays catatonic.

“Now, I’m putting antiseptic on your arm, okay? And your leg?”

Castiel stares at nothing.

Dean looks at him for a while. He should—he can’t leave Castiel to sleep on the cold metal floor. He’s shivering. “I’m laying you down somewhere more comfortable, okay,” he whispers. “I’m not touching you for anything else. Never. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Castiel’s softly snoring when Dean heaves him up on the bed, and he doesn’t wake when Dean covers him with one of the blankets.

The Betadine stains the ghastly bedspread, but who cares.

Dean sinks down to the floor. Jesus, what was he thinking? That Cas would be glad? Dean _made_ Castiel a slave. When Castiel finds out, he’s going to think Dean’s a monster, and he’ll be right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> … and their first conversation gets away from them and goes horribly, horribly wrong.
> 
> I've still got one chapter written up which I'm gonna post soon-ish - if I don't I'll probably just keep re-writing it and won't work so much on what comes after. Plus, it's much happier than this one.
> 
> Title from This joke sport severed by Manic Street Preachers
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting and everything!


	5. From right here the view goes on forever

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Internalized dehumanization, references to last chapter.

Castiel wakes up.

His owner—Dean Winchester, apparently, and not Plant—is sleeping. He’s sitting and leaning against the wall next to the door, not on the bed. Castiel’s on the bed. He’s naked. He can feel the fight deep in his bones, but no aches in new places have joined yesterday’s exhaustion. Last evening didn’t pass like he expected. When he was ordered on the bed, Castiel thought—but then, he had some kind of episode, and he’s been spared.

He eyes the cabin door. It’s likely locked, but the key’s still in there.

Castiel could use his owner’s naiveté to flee. He could even pry loose a bit of sharp metal from the interior lining and slit his master’s throat. He could use the ceramic knife. But where would he go? Where could he hide?

He touches his face and feels the leathery skin there. He can’t make out a shape, but he knows that if he had a mirror, the whitish discolored burn would show the X he’ll have to wear until the flesh rots off his bones. He is not a person anymore, and everyone will see. Everywhere, they will see.

Castiel’s removes his fingers. They’re coated with a yellow substance. He smells it. Something with iodine. An antiseptic.

At least his owner has a vested interest in preserving Castiel’s functionality.

Castiel puts on his pants.

He resolves to wait.

After some time, Winchester begins exhibiting signs of waking up: His eyes flutter. He groans, and stretches, and hits his head against the wall. His eyes snap open, his hand flies to his thigh, where one would wear a holster, and then to the inside of his jacket, from where he draws the knife. He looks wildly around the room, and only when he’s assured there’s no-one there but Castiel he calms down.

Castiel knows this kind of behavior. His owner must be a fighter of some sort, maybe a military contractor, since he still has a civilian name. Or maybe he is military and lying this time as well, in spite of the steep penalty for concealing one’s true name. At any rate, this is beneficial for Castiel, who doesn’t know anything about the civilian world. He joined the military young, and his parents had both been generals, and there had never been a question where he’d end up.

Castiel doesn’t know what use a military man will have of a slave: As captain, he’d forbidden slave ownership in his garrison, finding the matter distasteful and _pointless._ They can’t even be brought on the battlefield. Since one master is as good as another to a slave, there’d be no way to guarantee their loyalty. But Castiel will find a way to prove his usefulness if it kills him. He knows of the other uses of slaves, but he will convince his master that he is more profitable on the battleground than in the bed. Now that Castiel rethinks last evening, Winchester hadn’t even seemed to want him in that way, which shall certainly help.

Castiel will find out what Winchester _does_ want. He will become whatever thing he wants. And he will endure.

“—miles walk to my ship, okay? … Hey Cas, you in there?” His master waves a hand in front of his face.

Oh, Castiel’s been remiss in his duties. Ruminating on how he’ll survive will achieve nothing if he doesn’t keep his owner happy. “Yes, master,” Castiel says.

“Quit it with the master crap, okay. Sam will never let me hear the end of this,” his master grumbles. He looks at his watch. “Oh shit! We’re almost there. There’s so much I need to tell you before we get to my ship. Let’s just—I’ll explain on the way.”

Mr Winchester doesn’t bind Castiel’s wrists before they leave, but just one look at the jeering men who alight with them is enough to convince Castiel not to run.

His master leaves the ship station southwards. Castiel follows behind him. Maybe this is a test, and if Castiel proves his loyalty he’ll be spared being made obedient with bludgeons and knives.

They walk alongside wheat fields that are barely thigh-high, too low to provide cover for any enemies. Castiel allows himself to look at the weeds on the edge of the fields, and the bees buzzing from flower to flower.

“Dude, this is giving me a complex! I can’t talk to you if I can’t see your face. There’s plenty of space on the road,” Mr Winchester says suddenly.

Castiel hastily catches up with him, afraid he’s angered him, but Winchester just laughs and starts talking.

As they walk, Winchester regales Castiel with tales of the Impala. It’s a modified fourth-generation Chevrolet interstellar ship with enhanced coke bottle styling and the sweetest 396k-cubic-inch engine _ever_ , Castiel learns, and it has on more than one occasion outflown a Grace mark 9, although those are much newer and technologically superior spaceships, but Castiel isn’t allowed to tell ‘her’ that Winchester said that. Castiel is told that Winchester was raised aboard the ship, which is named either ‘Baby’ or ‘Impala’ or both, alongside a man called Sammy, who is a ‘huge nerd’.

“And when I say huge, Cas, I do mean _huge_.”

A woman called Jo lives there, with half a million knives although Castiel wonders how they fit onto a small interstellar ship, and Charlie who ‘can find out literally anything, man, as long as it’s on the net’. His aunt isn’t his real aunt, but Castiel should never mention that if he doesn’t want to get hit by her, and she makes the meanest burgers in the galaxy. Victor caught the Impala more than once, but then he was seduced over to the light side. Gordon is kind of a dick, but he was friends with Winchester’s father, and what can you do? His master rattles off name after name after name, and although Castiel duly tries to commit them to memory, it’s just too much at once.

“So, what do you think? You up for joining my crew, dude?”

Castiel stares. This question doesn’t make any sense. He’s a slave now, he goes where he is ordered to go.

“Hello, earth to Castiel! I asked you a question. What, you think you’re too good for us?”

“I just—how many—do you intend for me to serve your whole crew?”

“Jesus! I didn’t rescue you for that,” Winchester exclaims.

Not a word Castiel would have thought to apply to this situation. He squints. “Did you say ‘rescue’?”

“I didn’t buy you because I needed a slave, dude. It was just the easiest way to get you outta there. I wanted to recruit you.”

Castiel frowns. “You wanted to recruit me?”

“You a parrot or something? You’re good at hand-to-hand combat, I need people who are good at hand-to-hand combat for robbing spaceships. Q.E.D.”

“You don’t—but—”

“Calm down, man! I know you’ve got this brand now and that you think you have to act like a Stepford slave or something, but that wasn’t actually what I wanted! I just thought, I have to hire new people anyways and you’re real good, and I wanted to get a chance to make you a job offer. So what do you think? Full-time pirate, on the fastest ship in the eastern part of the galaxy? You in? You get a fair share of the booty and everything.”

Castiel is a slave now because he deserves it, because if he didn’t deserve it he wouldn’t have been made a slave. This sounds unreal. He’s still dreaming, he must be. Any minute now he’ll wake up.

The discomposure makes him imprudent, makes him completely forget to feign pliancy. “Pay me? You _own me_. Why would you give me a salary?”

“Details. Look, I blew like most of our profit on this trip, can you just back me up on this? Please?”

Castiel is utterly confused. But he knows what to do when he is told to do something. “Yes, Mr Winchester,” he says.

“Fucks sake, my name is Dean,” Dean grumbles.

~

For a guy who up until a year ago was possibly a pirate hunter, Cas is really quick in agreeing to become one. Too quick. Barely-time-to-think-nevermind- _say_ -the-word-yes too quick. Dean knows that kind of compliance, he’s had it instilled in him and instilled it in other people, and he knows what people look like who just say yes so they won’t get hit again. Castiel is faking.

“Look, okay. I promise you, you can say no, I won’t be angry. I’ll be ecstatic if you join me, I won’t lie, but you don’t have to. I won’t punish you.”

Castiel just looks at him like Dean’s speaking gibberish.

Dean tries again. “I swear on my mother’s grave, dude. I’ve never had a slave. I don’t _want_ a slave. You’re not my slave. If you join me, you’ll be a full member of my crew, you’ll be treated like everybody else, and that ugly scar on your face will be nothing but an interesting conversation starter.”

“And if I don’t join?”

Dean’s heart sinks. Of course Castiel doesn’t want to have anything to do with him. When he’d woken up, and Castiel had still been there, calm and looking at Dean—Castiel hadn’t even rejected his apology this morning on the tropo, though now Dean realizes that he’d looked a bit spaced out, it’s possible Cas hadn’t even heard what he said. Dean had thought that maybe, they could be allies, even if he royally put his foot in his mouth on their first meeting. But no, Castiel hates him, and who wouldn’t. “If you don’t, then we’ll fly you wherever you want, no questions asked, and let you go.”

“It sounds nice, _Dean_ ,” Castiel disdainfully stresses his name, “but you can give up the charade. We both know I can’t go anywhere. I’m an _unperson_ , everyone can see that. This isn’t a choice.”

Damn, but Cas is hostile towards every nice thing Dean says. “Okay, what about this—I’ve got an uncle on Pontus. Not blood, but, I mean—he’s a grumpy bastard, but you can work for him, and I promise he won’t treat you badly.”

“Pontus is pirate territory,” Castiel says suspiciously. Dean worries about how often he got hit on the head.

“Yeah, genius. Pontus is a pirate hub. Which is why he lives there, because he’s a retired pirate. As was my dad. I’m a fucking _pirate captain,_ for that matter. Hell, everyone I know is a pirate. You’re gonna be a pirate, too, if I’m lucky. Haven’t you listened to a single word I said?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, you’ve been daydreaming the whole time or yes, you wanna live with Bobby?”

“Yes, I’ll join you. You’ve made your case.”

“Are you absolutely sure? Really? I meant what I said, you can say no. No biggie.” Dean’s utterly wrong-footed. Castiel’s been telegraphing his distrust for Dean loud and clear for as long as he’s known him.

Castiel squints at him again. “Are you always this persistent in questioning someone’s assent? You must not be a very effective captain.”

“ _You’re_ not a very effective captain,” Dean says reflexively. “I just meant—you get that you’re allowed to say no, right?”

“Yes, Dean. And this is why staying with you is my best option.”

Jesus. Cas looks at Dean like he’s some kind of saint for letting him have a say in his future. Because Cas doesn’t expect to be allowed an opinion ever again.

Because Dean unmade him.

Castiel seems to think that Dean’s speachlessness means he’s too dumb to get it. He explains, “Either your tolerance is a ploy to make me trust you, which is unnecessary as you already own me, but will provide me with a period of respite. Or you are genuinely deluded and don’t understand the situation at all, which is even more beneficial to me. Either would entice me to stay.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, man,” Dean says sarcastically.

Castiel says, “Don’t worry, I won’t hold your unworldliness against you,” which—what?!

At least Castiel seems to genuinely have made a decision this time, however questionable his reasoning may be. Impulsively, Dean hugs him. Cas flinches. Shit.

“Sorry, so sorry! I totally forgot—I couldn’t really do much for your injuries yesterday, I didn’t want to touch you a lot after you totally freaked out—I mean Jesus, you had a panic attack because you thought I was gonna rape you—” Castiel jerks. Fuck! Dean shouldn’t have mentioned that. Sam always says Dean’s got no emotional sensitivity. “I would _never_ , you’re safe—but you’re in pain and I made you walk all this way. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Castiel shoots him a withering look. Oh right. “Shit, I’m sorry! And I’m so sorry about the virgin thing—I mean I’m not sorry you’re a virgin—I mean—I shouldn’t have said that at all, I shouldn’t have teased you about that, I’m so sorry! Fuck!”

Funnily enough, every time Dean cocks up a frantic apology and has to try again, Castiel seems to calm down more.

“Stop talking, Dean,” Castiel says. He looks at Dean with his clear blue eyes. Dean has the distinct impression he’s being laughed at.

Dean’s suddenly struck by how beautiful he is.

He smiles at Cas, basking in his presence, and then he notices what he’s doing.

Dean’s making eyes at the dude he bought. At Castiel, who thought Dean was going to _rape him yesterday_. Who didn’t fight back because he thought that was just what he had to endure now. Because of a fucking stupid decision that Dean made and didn’t think through, about how it would affect the guy Dean wanted to _save_. The man Dean condemned to eternal slavery instead.

There is no difference between Dean and the creepy would-be rapist from yesterday. Hell, why delude himself. Dean’s like _Alistair_ , who saw Dean and wanted him, who stopped at nothing to get him and then made sure he owned him forever, body and mind. Alistair always called him an apprentice, and he was right: Dean’s poison. He never should have been freed.

Dean’s mini-breakdown is interrupted by a gentle hand on his shoulder. There’s none of the fear—the disgust Dean deserves in Castiel’s face. He just looks concerned.

“Dean? Are you all right?” Castiel asks. “Did I hurt you somehow?”

The thought is ludicrous, when all along it’s been Dean hurting people.

But what’s done is done, and now it’s all Dean can do to make the best out of this bad situation. Dean can’t go back to before he hurt Castiel. He can only protect him from the fallout of Dean’s screw-up, and get him safe on the Impala, and he can make sure he never ever touches Castiel again.

~

Dean recoils from Castiel’s hand. He looks unhappy.

Castiel doesn’t understand what happened. They seemed to have reached an understanding, the kind of accord that took months to establish with his eventual co-conspirators. And then Dean suddenly looked like he’d been physically struck. Has Castiel done something wrong? Been too forward? But no, if Castiel had succeeded in calling his bluff—if this had been a bluff, and Dean was just trying to trick Castiel into disobedience, he’d be angry now, or triumphant, not… scared.

It might have nothing to do with Castiel, just an automatic reaction like when he was waking up. As a pirate, he’s likely to have seen combat, and inexplicable emotional responses are not unheard of in soldiers. Castiel should find out more before deciding on his course of action.

After all, at every turn now since he was unmade, he’s misread the situation. Misread his intentions. Dean Winchester has turned out to be nothing like anything Castiel could have imagined—nothing like anyone Castiel’s ever met.

These are the things Castiel knows: Dean is a criminal, a pirate. Scarred, violent, deceitful, he’s probably killed at least one of Castiel’s superiors.

Yet, he seems as innocent as a child when it comes to his behavior towards Castiel. More innocent than a child, since Castiel cannot even remember the first time it was impressed upon him that unpeople deserve their station, that any clemency towards them is but further injury heaped on those they harmed.

Any pain an unperson feels is justice.

But Dean stopped Zachariah from choking Castiel, and then he let Castiel sleep on the bed while he slept on the floor. He treated Castiel’s wounds. He seemed horrified at the idea of using Castiel sexually. He insists that Castiel address him in a way that signals closeness and equality to civilians, if Castiel understands the custom correctly. He doesn’t reprimand Castiel for speaking out of turn, a luxury Castiel rarely got to enjoy before now. He apologized. And he’s offering Castiel a salaried position on his ship, asking him as if Castiel still had the choice to refuse. As if Castiel was still a person.

Nothing Dean has said or done makes any sense in the framework Castiel has up until now been using to analyze the situation.

It appears that Castiel is lucky, and Dean is genuinely ignorant of the laws of the universe.

Not that Castiel’s situation isn’t still precarious, of course. Any associate of his might not be as ill-educated, so Castiel must stay close to Dean, and remove those who might teach him. Dean might grow angry at Castiel and follow through with his threat to send Castiel away, but now that he understands the situation, Castiel will not be caught off-guard again, and he will try harder not to challenge him. Castiel will let go of his pride. Castiel will let go of his moral objections to piracy. Worse still, Dean might realize himself what everyone else knows already—that Castiel is truly beyond redemption. But he hasn’t yet, and Castiel still has time.

He will stay with this strange merciful man. And once he has made Dean depend on him, nothing will be able to make Dean rid himself of Castiel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done with the narrative portion where Cas doesn’t refer to Dean as Dean! You don’t want to know how often I’ve had to re-read and edit because writing 'Dean' feels so much more natural
> 
> Btw, I know nothing about cars or how spaceships work, and what little vocab I know is in German, which isn’t helpful. I looked up “engine” and “Chevrolet Impala” on wikipedia and let that inspire the technobabble.
> 
> The chapter title is from Never Quite Free by the Mountain Goats
> 
> Thank you very much for reading, commenting and giving kudos!


	6. I will walk you home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this bit: A reference to the misunderstanding about rape from two chapters ago. Use of the word 'imbecile'. Author trying to be clever and writing a tired character without using the word 'tired'. This is a very tame chapter.

Shit. Why the hell did Dean have to be a dumbass and leer at Cas, for fuck’s sake. The guy’s gone quiet again, and Dean had really thought he’d managed to put him at ease before, too.

Should Dean apologize again? He can’t, what if Castiel wasn’t even aware of Dean’s perverted thoughts in the first place? Considering that the last time Cas thought Dean wanted to rape him, he didn’t exactly put up a protest… Dean can’t risk it.

But before Dean can start racking his brain for something else to break the silence, the questions start.

“You mentioned my skill in short-range combat. Is that to be my role on the _Baby_?” Castiel asks.

Dean grins. “It’s _Impala_ , man, she’s just my baby ‘cause I love her.”

Castiel scrunches up his face. “A ship is a tool, not an infant.”

“Don’t you disrespect my lady, dude, or I’ll have to kick you off the ship,” Dean says.

Cas looks at him in naked terror.

“That was a joke, by the way.” Shit, yeah, it probably wasn’t a very funny one, considering Cas seems to think his survival depends on keeping Dean happy. “Anyway, yeah, that’s about it. You’ll be dispatching enemies and providing cover, just like in the army.”

Castiel clenches his jaw, but he doesn’t protest the comparison. “How many crew do you command?”

“There’s twenty-seven people on the Impala currently, including me. Twenty-eight, now.”

Castiel frowns. “Didn’t you say that your ship was a Chevrolet 4? Small interstellar passenger ship, maximum range of 2.7 kiloparsecs on a full tank, standard capacity of sixty people?”

“You a ship buff?” Dean’s delighted. There’s never too many hobby mechanics on a spaceship, though obviously he wouldn’t let Cas tinker with his baby.

“Not exactly,” Castiel says, and looks away. “I’ve studied several common models. Recognizing ships on sight is, um, beneficial. If you know the blueprints as well. Where the windows are. Where the hull is thinnest. Whether the engines are prone to jamming. Where the fuel tanks are situated. When it will run out of fuel. It’s… interesting.”

Ah. So Cas isn’t just an on-site fighter, he’s also blown up a couple of flying ships. And he’s being cagey about telling Dean. It screams ‘pirate hunter’.

“You ever use your… interesting information?”

“Yes, I’ve… um…” Castiel looks away.

“I’m just messing with you. Which kinds of ships have you blown up? Don’t look so shocked, you weren’t exactly being subtle. I’m not mad or anything, I figured you were a stormtrooper.”

Castiel looks blank.

“That means evil. No, don’t argue. I know that from your point of view, the Jedi are evil and everything, but…”

Castiel seems to decide that just ignoring what Dean says is the way to go for now. “I served in pacification for a long time before being stationed here,” he says. “So I’ve ‘blown up’ many vessels.”

“Didn’t get mine, though.” Dean grins. “I’m too good for you, buddy.”

“Isn’t it risky to fly at below half-capacity, though? Just a few more people need to be taken out to render your ship unspaceworthy.”

“I know, man. Me ‘n Charlie, we’re working on it. But I don’t really have a choice. Back when my Dad was captain, we had the full sixty, but then I took over and…” He trails off. Man, Dean must be a shitty captain if Castiel can spot he’s a failure after one day of knowing him. He had been so proud when Dad started grooming him to take over, even though it was obvious that Sam would’ve gotten the captaincy if he’d talked back only a little less, if he hadn’t run away. But Sam doesn’t want the job, he doesn’t even want to be second in command, and now they’re stuck with Dean, and all the rats are bailing.

“Dean, stop. You are obviously a skilled captain. Do not blame yourself,” Cas orders, but he’s wrong. He doesn’t know Dean. “The more likely reason is that the emperor’s scheme is working. Mauretania and Numidia started issuing letters of marque and reprisal three years ago in order to intimidate and weaken the neighboring planets. A projected side-effect was the decline of intra-empire piracy.”

“You mean some of the dumbasses actually _chose_ to work for Mikey?” Yeah, actually, that does kinda make sense. No wonder the job market’s in the crapper if everyone and their uncle is off privateering.

“You wouldn’t want to take advantage of the chance at amnesty?” Castiel asks, intently focusing on Dean’s face. It strikes Dean that he might be scared to meet any of his ex-comrades if Dean goes legit. If they’ve internalized half the shit Cas has, they’ll kill him within a week.

“Don’t worry, Cas. No. I’m my own man. Not into taking orders, and my Dad would come back from the dead to kill me himself if he found out I was working for the empire of all things. Plus, it’s kinda suspicious, isn’t it? Who says Mike isn’t gonna nuke all those ships full of the criminals he’s tried to wipe out for eons?” Cas looks surprised. “Just stands to reason, all right?”

“It is my understanding that the emperor desires a long-term relationship with extra-military resources for the purposes of defending our home.” Castiel licks his lips. “However, I confess it’s a well-engineered chance at extirpating most of the pirate threat to our internal trade.”

“Meaning you would definitely shoot them down too, right? It’s just cleverer. It’s gotta be a scam. Anyway, we weren’t exactly huge to begin with. And then we had a couple of rough fights the last few years, lost people… I won’t lie to you, this gig isn’t exactly a nice cushy desk job.”

“Dean, I have survived months in the arena. I think I can handle it.”

“It’s not just the fighting, though. The worst thing is…” He trails off. Shit, why’d he have to bring it up in the first place, he hasn't even told Sam much beyond the basics. Dean’s living proof that capture is worse than death. Hell, he’s still not all here sometimes, and he escaped over five years ago.

But Dean’s lucky and gets spared having to go over the worst four months of his life, because there she is.

They made it.

~

Castiel can’t help but feel relieved when they see it. So far he has managed to resist limping, but he would like to stop walking before he can’t anymore. Dean has already pointed out his weakness once.

From the peak of the hill, Dean’s ship is unmissable, black hull polished and gleaming in the noon sun, in spite of the dust that covers large portions of Sicilia and that tends to stick to every available surface. It seems that Dean has found a perfect landing spot, a large meadow that poses no danger of dirtying the thing. Perfect for Dean’s purposes, that is, which obviously aren’t very practical: If Castiel were a pirate, he would never have chosen to disembark in such an exposed spot. A single white boulder lies on their path, not nearly enough to provide cover for a fleeing crew, should they be attacked.

There may not be any people here now, but it seems strange to believe that such a beautiful spot should have gone so long before discovery.

At least it looks already prepared for take-off. Maybe Castiel’s new unit are not complete imbeciles.

“She’s a beauty, isn’t she?” Dean says, beaming. “Had to rebuild her myself a couple of time, but she looks as good as new.”

Castiel feels compelled not to correct Dean’s enthusiasm. His smile warms Castiel, his conversation is not made of traps, and now that Castiel has decided on a battle plan, he feels calm at last. “Yes, Dean, your antiquated ship is very well-preserved,” he says just as they reach the lump of rock.

Behind it, something cracks. Castiel steps in front of Dean, who doesn’t seem to have noticed anything.

Another footstep.

A tall man emerges from behind the rock, saying “Hey, did someth—”

Castiel darts forward and forces him against the boulder before he can finish his sentence. He punches the man, then grabs the right lapel of his shirt, his knuckles turned inward and against his artery, then takes the left lapel in his other hand, and pulls. Castiel won’t let anyone kill Dean.

Before he manages to incapacitate the man completely, though, Dean shouts “Don’t fucking kill my brother, you psycho!” and attempts to pull Castiel away.

Castiel stops, but doesn’t release his hold. The thwarted attacker has shoulder-length brown hair. The shirt in Castiel’s grip is plaid and patched in several places. His eyes do look similar to Dean’s. He looks shocked.

Dean tugs again, and Castiel lets go.

“Sam, you okay?” Dean says, grabbing the man’s shoulder. Castiel represses his urge to separate them. If the other man has a knife, Castiel won’t be able to shield Dean in time.

“I’m—” he coughs. “Alive. What the hell, man?!”

“Hey Sam, good to see you too! I missed your ugly haircut,” Dean says, huge smile on his face. He hugs Sam. “Okay, so that wasn’t exactly how I wanted to introduce you two,” Dean says. “But what can you do. C’mon, Cas, calm down, he isn’t a deadly threat. Unless he’s eaten beans recently.”

Castiel dares a look at Dean’s face. He doesn’t look very angry. He might not punish Castiel too harshly for attempting to kill his brother after all.

“Dean, you were supposed to come back yesterday. What’s going on, are you in trouble? Are—” Sam starts.

Dean interrupts, crowing with pride. “This is Castiel, by the way. _The_ Castiel. I know what you’re thinking, what is the infamous leader of the Sicilia coup doing here? The answer is of course: He’s going to become one of us!”

“My question was more along the lines of _Why are you walking around with a homicidal maniac_ , Dean, but sure.” Dean’s brother looks at Castiel again. He furrows his brow. “Never mind that, is that what I think it is? Is that a frigging _bird brand_? Did you buy a slave?”

Castiel grows stiff. This is too early. Dean’s brother _knows._

“Long story, Sam,” Dean says.

“Dean, you can’t just _long story_ me about that kinda stuff. You’re my brother.”

“Look—you know how we need a couple of new recruits, right? Castiel here agreed to join. There was just a tiny snag, in that he’s a high profile criminal, but the Sicilian High Judge kindly sold him to Robert Plant for a frankly ludicrous sum and hey presto, here we are.”

Dean’s brother doesn’t look convinced.

“I’m not joking, Sam,” Dean says. “This is Castiel, and he’s gonna join our crew.”

“Wait, did you say _Castiel_?” Sam looks at him.

Castiel carefully lowers his eyes. He desperately needs to talk to Dean, to convince him that his attack on Sam isn’t a sign that he cannot be trusted, but rather that he is loyal, that he will protect Dean above all else, but he can’t interrupt. Dean might not be aware that unpeople aren’t supposed to talk back or look at people, but Sam is possibly less naïve.

“The one and only,” Dean says.

“You _bought_ the _scourge of Sicilia_ and convinced him to become a _pirate_?”

“Pretty much.”

“And he attempted to kill me?”

“Hey, Cas probably thought you were gonna attack me or something, right?”

“Yes,” Castiel says, turning towards Sam, still looking at the ground. “I apologize, I thought you were a threat to De—my master.”

“Cas?!,” Dean sounds shocked.

Castiel angles his body the other way again, but doesn’t meet Dean’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know he was your brother. I never would have attacked him if I’d known. I only wanted to protect you. Please.”

“Cas, no. Don’t go all robot on me again.” Dean seeks out his eyes. Castiel can’t help but look back at him. “I believe you, okay, and I meant what I said. I’m not gonna punish you. And you didn’t do anything wrong, anyway. Or, hey, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t attack all my friends on sight, but I know where you were coming from. Constant vigilance and all that. C’mon, you’re shaking.”

Castiel looks at his hand and realizes that yes, he is. He can’t get them to stop. He looks up again.

“It’s an honor,” Sam says and holds out his hand. “You’re a hero.”

Castiel stares. He was only following his orders—older orders, better orders, orders he’s been told as a child, that the empire rules to guide and protect the other planets, to teach them to live in accordance with the laws of the universe. And not to murder them.

Dean nudges him. He looks at Sam again, who looks disappointed.

Oh, the hand.

Castiel grasps it with both of his. “It’s… good to meet you too,” he tells Sam, for lack of something better to say.

“Sammy’s your biggest fan,” Dean says, grinning. “Gargantuan.”

“Yes, I’ve followed your case from the beginning,” Sam says. “There’ve been so many challenges to the military’s power monopoly, for centuries. Bostra, Petra, Ardahan, but they were peripheral towns seized by commoners. Not linked in any way, no plan beyond getting rid of an unpopular mayor or stopping exports to Rome. That you’d take on Michael so close to the home world…”

Is that what they’d done, Castiel wonders. Challenge Michael? At the time, it had seemed a very different choice. Kill Lilith, or help her fill the torture chambers with the very people they were tasked with guarding.

“There’s no way seizing Sicilia was the end goal, right? That would’ve been unsustainable. No, you’d have had contacts on the other planets, maybe even Rome itself. And they weren’t caught yet, I checked—no surge in military executions or trials beyond the ordinary anywhere in the empire—” There is no reason why a commoner would know that kind of information, Castiel has never been told they have aggregated judiciary data. “—but the military’s been twitchy for a while now, what with Michael’s cronyism, I mean all the highest ranks are packed with his family! You’re all promised a potential rise to the top, right? And they just caught your pocket of the rebellion, I don’t know why you didn’t all attack simultaneously but there were probably reasons, maybe Michael’s response surprised you.

“So what are you planning now? Re-establish contact?” Sam asks.

Castiel stays silent. He doesn’t know—he didn’t even plan beyond getting rid of Lilith, barely dared hope they’d achieve _that_. Why would they challenge Michael for the throne? Michael protects his people, citizen and commoner alike. He is just.

“Samantha, think you could save your fangirling for later?” Dean says. “I’d like to get off this hellhole sometime this century.” He whispers something to Sam, and they start to walk. “Let’s go, Cas.”

Right on cue, Castiel stumbles. He looks to see if anyone has noticed, but Sam’s already at the Impala. When Castiel looks at Dean, the man looks away.

Castiel has spent so many hours training, preparing his body for arduous fights. It’s irritating that it would fail him now, when the ache in his leg and in his stomach is nothing to what he has already endured.

He hurries to catch up.

“Okay, how do we do this? Crew meeting in half an hour in the main deck? I’ll tell everybody,” Sam says when they’re at the Impala’s entrance.

“No, Sam,” Dean says. “First things first. We haven’t eaten all day, I’m fucking starving.” He cheeks his watch. “Ellen should have at least started on lunch by now, so we’re golden.”

“Now isn’t the time for gluttony. Shouldn’t we introduce him first? Worst case scenario, someone sees him and shoots him for being an intruder.”

“Sam, look at him, okay.”

Both Sam and Dean stare at him. Castiel doesn’t know what they want, but it doesn’t seem as if they deem his resting stance up to par. He corrects his posture.

“Good point,” Sam says. “Take care of him.”

“Okay, just go tell Charlie I’m alive and make Jo do the take-off,” Dean commands. He then turns to Castiel. “You want food or medicine first?”

“I, um, food,” Castiel whispers.

He insists on walking the steps into the ship and up to the mess hall on the upper level by himself, although Dean refuses to quit hovering behind him. Just as well, since Castiel does carelessly miss several steps again.

Ellen who is not Dean’s aunt and who apparently also isn’t the cook, despite the fact that she seems to have dominion over the kitchen and is, in fact, currently cooking—she hit Castiel on the head with a wooden spoon when he applied the term to her—is a truly generous woman. She takes one look at his bedraggled state and refuses his offer of help, instead ushering him into a chair whose comfort belies the harsh metal it is made of. She pays no heed to the scar or what it means.

“Careful, you’ll throw up,” she gently admonishes when Castiel can’t help but inhale his burger. She passes him a second one without even asking.

Dean eats one, too, but most of his time is spent staring at Castiel.

Ellen whispers something to him that Castiel doesn’t understand, and Dean whispers back, and then they get up.

Dean steers Castiel towards a shower room and leaves him alone while he procures some clothes. Dean tells him to wash himself, that he’s allowed to lock the door from the inside, and that he should just let Dean in when he knocks.

If Dean had wanted Castiel to do anything else, he should have specified, and so Dean’s prudish yelp when Castiel is still wet and unclothed while opening the door is excessive. As a soldier, Castiel has always lived in communal rooms, and he sees no cause to consider nudity shameful. And Dean has already expressed his lack of sexual interest in Castiel’s body.

Still, Dean turns red and refuses to look at Castiel before he has dried himself off and put on the underpants that Dean thrusts through a gap in the door.

Dean has also fetched another chair for Castiel to sit on while his wounds are tended to.

“You’re lucky,” he says, examining the burn first. “Doesn’t look infected. Which is good, ‘cause we only got a field hospital. Not too much dead tissue either, so we’ll let your body take care of the slough itself.” He puts some kind of gel on Castiel’s face. “Does it hurt a lot?”

Castiel shakes his head.

“Itch?”

Castiel nods.

“Good, means it’s trying to heal. Now, if anything changes, color or feel or if there’s pus or fever, tell me immediately, ‘kay? Burns are nasty. Your other wounds are scabbed over, so I won’t disturb them. Just don’t keep straining your leg like that. Now. You want to keep the peach fuzz, or do you wanna shave? Before the coup you were always clean-shaven, but that might have just been regulation,” Dean says, and gestures to the mirror above the sink while he gets out razors and shaving cream.

Oh. There’s a mirror.

Castiel looks at his face. It doesn’t look very much like the one he had before. Unclean as it was fifteen minutes ago, he wouldn’t have recognized himself in the street. It’s just thin and bearded more wrinkled, now. Castiel can read the arena in his skin, in the scar on his forehead and the tooth that was knocked out when he was almost beaten to death. There’s also the brand that mars his left cheek, thick burns stretching from just under his eye down to his jaw and from his ear to his mouth. The transparent gel doesn’t conceal anything; and the garish yellow-brown-red X stands out even against his tanned skin. Dull, uneven hair.

It’s not a very good face.

“… deaf?” Dean asks, but when Castiel turns around to face him, his eyes soften. “Do you want me to help shave it off?”

Castiel nods. Yes, it would be good to have one thing from his old face back, at least. And Dean’s hands are very gentle.

He closes his eyes while he lets Dean turn his face the way he needs it.

“Good?” Dean asks.

Castiel looks again. It doesn’t look any better. Still, he nods.

“’kay, I’ll just dress the wound then and after you’ve put on your clothes, we can go meet the crew.”

Castiel has been weak. He has allowed Dean’s gentle voice to lull him into a sense of safety. He doesn’t know how he’ll keep his hands from shaking in front of the people he’ll need to impress, to seize up—to intimidate—if he means to live a safe life here.

He stands up.

“Nevermind, you’re probably tired,” Dean says. “I am, too. All that walking. You can sleep in me and Sam’s cabin for now and meet the rest tomorrow.”

Castiel is so grateful he has to turn his face away.

Dean takes his arm and leads him down the corridor to four identical doors.

“First class compartments from when this was a transit ship,” he says, and opens a door with a key. “You take my bed—no, that’s Sammy’s—and I’ll rustle up a hammock for me and some stuff for you. You look like a jammies kinda guy.”

Despite the light outside the window, Castiel’s asleep before Dean returns.

~

When he wakes up again, listening to Dean’s soft breathing in the dark, Castiel can almost let himself believe he is still in the cadet dormitory on his first ship, and that none of this has happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epicenter, now featuring the obligatory hurt/comfort shaving scene.
> 
> Cas was actually meant to meet the whole crew this chapter as per my plot overview Excel table, but then the conversations kept getting longer and this would’ve gotten more than double the word count of some earlier chapters. Since it doesn’t hurt the pacing much, I decided to privilege updating over strictly adhering to The Plan.
> 
> BTW, the new semester’s started for me this week, so expect updates to happen less frequently.
> 
> Filed under _Cool facts I can’t really use because my story is set exclusively in a region with a hegemonial power_ : Privateers as a means of interstate warfare. Oh well, it doesn’t fit with the plot anyway.
> 
> Some years ago when I was still a kid I read a fic featuring maggot therapy. Dean doesn’t like having insects on his spaceship, though, so sadly you only get autolytic debridement (though that’s technically self-digestion, which is metal as well!)
> 
> Title’s Adverts again.
> 
> Thank you all for reading, kudos and commenting, you're the best!


	7. Feed me to the lions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Flippant joke about suicide (in the context of marooning).

Dean’s getting some intense déjà-vu. Just like yesterday, Cas is already up when Dean wakes, sitting cross-legged on Dean’s bed, and just like yesterday, he’s staring at Dean’s face like someone’s drawn a particularly intricate dick on it with permanent marker and he’s checking every detail for anatomical correctness. (That was one time, okay, and Dean’s made sure never to pass out next to Jo after telling her she’s way too young and like a sister and that she should really find some nice young man to go out with _ever again_. Maybe twice, if you include the prank war with Sam. Okay, three times. Dean knows way too many disrespectful assholes.)

Cas is barely wearing more either, since he was out like a light before Dean could make him put on pajamas.

At least his dick’s covered this time. Small mercies. Or not so small, heh. Wait, no, Dean shouldn’t be thinking about that at all, and this is why Castiel really needs to start wearing clothes before Dean gets an aneurysm. Or worse, before he gives him a compliment. Christ, Dean shouldn’t even be looking at the poor guy if he can’t keep it in his pants. Pun intended.

Luckily, that’s a problem easily solved: There’s no reason why Cas has to keep sleeping in Dean’s room after he’s been introduced to the crew and once Dean’s made it 100% crystal clear that anyone who messes with him will get marooned on an asteroid with nothing but a bottle of cheap nasty rum and an ABBA record to break and slit his wrists with. No record player, though, Dean isn’t that cruel. Cas can sleep in one of the dorm rooms and Dean will have plenty of time to avoid him and get over his nasty infatuation with Castiel’s cheekbones and his squinting and his barely-there smiles when he makes fun of Dean and tries to be sneaky about it.

But first things first.

“Okay, here’s the clothes I found,” Dean says, picking them up from his bedside table. “We can get you more later, once we know what fits. Charlie’ll probably want to take you shopping anyway.”

Dean averts his eyes while Cas puts everything on. Once the rustling’s stopped, he looks back. Castiel’s torso is still bare. Is this guy an exhibitionist or something?

“Is there a problem?” Dean asks. “It’s a military uniform shirt, pretty sure it’s a captain’s one, too.”

Castiel stares at the shirt. Once he’s presumably memorized every thread, he switches gears and frowns at Dean instead, still silent.

“I didn’t kill anyone for it either in case you’re wondering, there’s quite a big black market for those things back on Pontus. I just thought you might like to wear something familiar,” Dean adds. Shit, if it’s not the not wanting to wear a dead comrade-in-arms’ shirt, then he’s probably sensitive about being reminded of the status he’s lost. Why do all nice gestures backfire.

The reassurance seems to work, though, and Cas does put the shirt on, still staring at Dean like he’s doing a very confrontational reverse striptease. No, bad Dean.

Now to complete the ensemble. “Gotta have a coat, you can stash all sorts of shit inside. Knives, guns, snacks. Now, I generally use a leather jacket because, you know, badass, but we’re out of those. Seems like everyone wants to dress like a certain handsome pirate.” He puts on his own leather jacket over his t-shirt and does the Blue Steel face. Castiel doesn’t laugh. What the hell is up with that guy. “Me,” Dean says. “They wanna look like me.” Still nothing.

Tough crowd, thy name is Castiel. (It occurs to Dean that an observer might characterize his harmless jokes as flirting, but since Dean absolutely isn’t interested in Castiel in any way, and he would be a very bad person if he were into Cas, which he isn’t, and Cas obviously doesn’t like Dean back that way, but is maybe kinda reassured by the jokes, at least Dean thinks so—Cas is sometimes hard to read because he likes to pretend he only feels slave-appropriate feelings when he’s unsure—there is obviously no flirting taking place. So there.)

The beige overcoat’s a bit too wide in the shoulders, and the trousers are a bit too long, but at least Castiel’s fully dressed now.

“Let’s go for breakfast before everyone else gets up,” Dean says. Castiel doesn’t seem at ease yet in the company of other people—Dean’s fucking lucky that he’s apparently been accepted, to be honest, after what he did—and he really wants Cas to enjoy his breakfast. Guy needs any calories he can get.

~

They weren’t up early enough, though. Jo’s already in the kitchen, doing her morning ritual of telling Ellen she shouldn’t have to help setting the table because she’s the second in command on the Impala.

“C’mon Mom, I’m not a kitchen maid!” she shouts while getting out the cereals.

It’s probably good that Jo’s there, to be honest, to ease Castiel into it. Jo may be a stubborn asshole with the age equivalent of a napoleon complex (and, heh, also the standard version, let’s be honest here), but she’s also genuinely _nice_.

“Hey Dean, who’s the newbie?” she asks, and puts a bowl in front of Castiel. She appraises him and snatches it away again. “On second thought, you look like you could do with a more decent breakfast than that, Mr …?”

“Castiel,” Castiel says. “I’m Castiel. Dean says that I am to become a member of this crew, a fighter, and that—”

“Hold your horses, Castiel. Food first, business later.” Jo laughs. “Now, what d’you think of bacon and eggs? Much better than this health bran flakes business, am I right or am I right?”

Castiel nods.

“Mom, one Cholesterol Special for Castiel here!” she shouts. “I’m Jo, by the way. Boss numero dos on this fine space cruiser. Now, Dean hasn’t told me much—or anything—about you yet, but that’s easily corrected. Dean, just bring a whole bottle of OJ and some glasses, and coffee too! Good, and now some grub for me, you know the one.”

Castiel looks very confused at the casual way she’s bossing Dean around.

“Jo’s kinda my annoying little sister. One of them,” Dean explains after his three trips to the kitchen. “We grew up together for a while, ‘til her dad died. Took some time for Ellen to stop hating my dad after that. Now, Jo, if you’d listened to a single one of Sam’s nerd outbursts this year, you’d know who Castiel is. Sicilia? Military coup? Anything ringing a bell?”

“You know I don’t really give a rat’s ass about the empire,” Jo says. “Long as they can’t catch us, why should I? They’re dicks, the whole lot of them, and they don’t give a fuck that we’d starve because of the fucking food exports without the black markets and the pirates. Um, present company excluded, obviously. You’re probably a really nice guy,” she tells a very alarmed looking Castiel.

“I’m not really a part of the empire anymore, anyway,” Castiel says, swallowing. “I don’t know if you know…” He turns his head and gestures towards his bandaged cheek. “I’ve been cast out. The brand, I think your people, commoners, call them bird marks—it tells everyone that I don’t deserve to be protected by any laws anymore, nowhere in the empire. Dean has told me that it doesn’t mean anything to you, to pirates. That you’ll accord me the same rights and duties as anyone else, that you won’t…”

“Dean’s right,” Ellen says as she carries in a veritable mountain of food on a single plate. “We don’t believe in the whole unperson nonsense, and if anyone tries to start anything with you, just come to me and I’ll beat them round the head with the heaviest frying pan I got till they see sense.”

“Yes,” Jo agrees, so solemn that Dean hardly recognizes her. “Dean’s probably told you, or Sam, but if they haven’t, I will: There is no such thing as an unperson on this ship. You don’t have to be scared anymore. Now dig in, you look like you haven’t eaten a full meal in years.”

“I had burgers yesterday, actually,” Castiel says. “But before that, they only gave me moldy bread for five months in the hope I would go blind.”

~

Dean’s told Jo to show Castiel around the ship for an hour or two before they convene the big crew meeting, because his crew always get angry when they’re woken up early.

Also, it’s good for Castiel to spend more time with Jo, good that he has someone besides Dean now, someone who won’t look at him and wonder what his hair would feel like if he was running his fingers through it. Someone who doesn’t accidentally remember the time when Castiel pressed him against a wall and threatened him when he is in the shower.

Though maybe his decision was shortsighted.

“… do that again! You have procedures for properly but secretly greeting a superior officer while both of you are undercover?! Tell me if I’ve got it right!” Jo’s saying as she enters the main deck, Castiel trailing closely behind her. Jo’s laughing so hard she’s shaking, and her imitations of Castiel’s tiny fluid gestures look like flailing.

“Jo, he’s not some kind of dog that you can make do cool tricks,” Dean chides her.

“It’s not a slave thing or anything, Dean,” Jo replies. “Castiel’s just capable of respecting his first mate even if she’s ten years younger and one head shorter than he is, unlike the rest of you meatheads. C’mon, tell Dean what you told Kubrick when he said I should bring him a sandwich, Cas!”

“I told him that a superior who was less merciful and wise than Jo would have promptly relieved him of his service and charged him for the journey to the next inhabited planet, where he would be left. Also, a man who cannot even procure or make his own food is clearly not very bright.”

“And when the asshole got out a knife, he corrected his stance and told him he should ask someone with actual fight experience to teach him. Can you believe this guy?!”

“So you’ve met Kubrick. Anyone else you’ve mortally offended already?” Dean asks. Serves the guy right, though. Jo’s never told Dean how much he’s been bugging her, or Dean would have told him off himself.

Jo’s smiling. She nudges Cas and says, “I know you remember their names.”

“We met Charlie. She is very nice. Victor, Tracy and Dorothy were in the gym room. Sam as well. They are also nice.”

“Yeah, we’re all a bunch of swell people, ‘cept for the dicks. Sam’s gonna be here any minute, and he’ll get the rest to show up,” Dean says, just as Sam shuffles in, still toweling his hair dry while he sits down in front of a computer and starts the intercom control system. Should’ve let Dean use the scissors, the dork.

~

The Impala’s crew might still only have twenty-eight members, but it takes some time until everyone’s trickled in. Castiel gets progressively more confused with every time Sam repeats the summons. Shit, he’s probably used to swift obedience and all that, what with having served on a real warship and everything. Dean’s crew must look like total slackers. Dean hopes Castiel doesn’t draw the conclusion that he’s a real slacker captain, too.

When Kevin shuffles in, he doesn’t even look up, fully focused on what is probably a game on his communicator. “’sup,” he mumbles.

Castiel looks at Dean, eyebrows raised.

So much for impressing Castiel with captaining the fastest pirate vessel in the empire. At this rate, Dean’s lucky if nobody gets talking about embarrassing moments from his childhood.

By the time their gunner Anna Milton saunters in half an hour late, drying her hair after what was probably the slowest shower ever recorded in human history, Dean’s mentally planning mock emergencies. If his crew keep this kinda thing up, they’re toast if they meet one of Mikey’s lackeys. But badgering his crew’ll have to wait.

The moment Anna walks in, Castiel stops his quiet robot in the background act and steps forward. “Anna?!” he exclaims.

Weird. Anna was born and raised on Lusitania, a fairly peaceful and self-governing border planet. There’s no reason why she’d have met any soldiers before she joined the Impala crew, especially not someone specializing in pacification.

“You know Anna Milton?” Sam asks.

“Milton? You’re pretending to be a civilian after you _deserted_?” Castiel growls.

“I’d desert a thousand times over, and gladly! Anything is better than serving your inhuman regime. The commoners always were better than us,” Anna hisses back. “Whatever you’re here to do, Castiel, I won’t let it happen! I know you, and I’ll protect my new family no matter what.”

“Anna, what—” Dean says.

“Dean, I have to tell you something,” she interrupts, pulls Dean into a corner and whispers furiously, “Did you know you were bringing a soldier aboard the Impala?” When he nods, she presses on. “Are you sure it was a good idea? Castiel may have attempted a coup d’état, but you don’t know why, or if he’s been forgiven. You need to consider that maybe he was offered a plea deal, that if he applied on a pirate ship and betrayed it they’d forget the whole coup.”

“I guarantee you, that’s not how it went down,” Dean whispers back. “Trust me, Anna, Cas wouldn’t have chosen this. It isn’t a trick.”

“Everything he’s told you could just be a tactical move. An act.” Anna peers over to where Castiel is standing. Jo’s stroking his arm and whispering to him. “I know him, I’ve known him for a very long time. I used to be his boss. Castiel is smart, he knows what he needs to do to survive, and he’ll do it.”

“Look, even if Castiel hates us, I can’t just turn him away. You’re aware of what proscription is?”

“Yes, obviousl—” When she notices the patch on Castiel’s cheek, she looks horrified. “You mean, they …? Jesus. Charlie told me that there’s a big brouhaha in the military because they unmade a soldier, but. That was Castiel?!”

“Yeah. Two days ago. So, you understand, you need to get along, no matter what, okay? I promised I would protect him.”

“I will,” Anna swears. “And, Dean?” She pulls him back. “You’re right, it can’t be a ploy. Castiel would sooner have died. You can’t imagine the kind of crap we’re taught about unpeople, how they deserve to suffer. Thank you for protecting him.”

~

Jo’s hovering by Castiel’s side, asking him why Anna’s so hostile, and he should reassure her—must reassure her, his last ally. If Dean decides that whatever Anna tells him means he must be cast out, then she’s his only hope.

It’s difficult to explain, though, which is why he whispers that he’ll tell her later. Castiel doesn’t even completely understand why Anna dislikes him.

One thing is sure: Her presence on the Impala complicates Castiel’s situation, even if he is allowed to stay.

He does not want to remove her. Even the revelation that she wants him dead hasn’t managed to temper his intense relief that she’s alive.

Moreover, he  _cannot_ removeher, or at least, not silently: it has been a long time since he has watched her fight—more than four years since she died, or rather, since she deserted—and even longer still since they sparred, but she has always bested him. Surprising her would be difficult, since she has lived on this ship far longer than he has.

Removing her might even be unwise, considering how fast she has sought out Dean after finding out who he is. Is she warning him that Castiel will take any chance to rise above his station? Advising him on how to discipline Castiel? Telling him how he should treat his slave?

No, for that has been the most puzzling thing. Anna does not seem to dislike Castiel because of the class of people, or not-people, that Castiel belongs to. Instead, her disdain is predicated on a factor Castiel has heretofore completely failed to consider: his own character. _I know you_ , she said. Anna does not take issue with the fact that Castiel is not a person. Instead, she distrusts him _because of the kind of person she thinks he is_.

Most likely, Anna will not treat Castiel as a slave.

But that does not make her any safer for him. Whatever her reasons, she still doesn’t like him, and Dean obviously likes her. He probably trusts her much more than Castiel. There, she is touching him on the shoulder, an intimate touch. She is turning Dean towards herself. She is whispering something into his ear.

If Dean is convinced that Castiel should be cast out, he will be: she can end him.

He needs to gauge Dean’s mood.

And he needs to change Anna’s mind.

(While it was never realistic—no superior officer could ever know, for fear of being sent to be corrected—Castiel has occasionally allowed himself to imagine Anna’s reaction to his minor attempts at protecting the commoners, and he has always imagined her smiling. Anna’s assessment of his character _hurts_.)

~

Cas looks concerned, and Dean would love to reassure him as fast as possible, but unfortunately they’re in a crew meeting, and they’ve got an audience. An audience with a higher mean assholishness than normal, since some people he’d usually rely on for their level-headedness like Victor, Dorothy and Ellen, are on their piloting shift right now or cooking.

“Okay folks, I’m sure the whole thing was just a big old misunderstanding,” Dean says. “A misunderstanding which Cas and Anna are going to resolve right after this meeting.

“But let’s move on to the agenda for today: Point one. Profit. Robbing the Cydonian merchant ship was a complete success. Bela ponied up 4.1k for the gems and the map. No major injuries, so we don’t have to pay out for that, though we did agree to give 100 bucks to retired pirates. Minus ship maintenance, kerosene, provisions and medicine leaves us with 3250 denarii. So standard spaceman portion is 95 denarii, two sestertii and one as. Not bad, huh?

“Now the bad news: I can only give you a quarter of that right now, you’ll get the rest after we’ve made a pit stop on Pontus.”

The crowd’s murderous.

“What’ve you done with our money,” Tracy shouts.

Unfortunately, Gwen’s figured it out. “You bought the new guy, didn’t you. The bandage, that’s hiding the bird sign. He’s a slave.”

Castiel flinches.

“The empire _rat_.” Yeah. That would be Gordon.

“Your new co-worker,” Dean corrects sternly. “Yes, I had to pay all that money so that Castiel could join us. He’s a clever tactician, amazing fighter, experience with gunning down spaceships. A welcome addition to our team. And _not_ a slave.”

“He is a slave, though,” Creedy yells.

“There are no slaves on a pirate ship. _One for all, all for one_ , that’s us. Not _For all except that one guy who we don’t think deserves any rights_. That wouldn’t be a very Musketeer motto, would it?” Charlie says. “And it also wouldn’t make us very good people. If Castiel is a pirate, then ipso facto, he isn’t a slave.”

Thank god for her. “Charlie’s right,” Dean says. “If I catch any one of you treating Cas differently, you’re gone immediately, capisce? And I don’t care whether we’re anchored or in full flight at that moment. I will throw you off my ship. Dismissed.”

“Aren’t you gonna mention that we got two parasites on the ship now?” Gordon shouts.

“That means you too, Gordon.”

With much grumbling and a few supportive words, the crew leave the main deck, until only Jo, Sam and Dean and the two squabblers are left.

“Stay calm,” Dean tells Cas and Anna. Man, the kerfuffle about the money, he knew that would happen. If there’s one thing he wouldn’t ever have guessed though, it’s that there are suddenly two traitors to the empire on his ship, and they’d get into a catfight over who’s the traitorest. “You’re on the same side, okay.”

“There’s a difference between being in the same situation and being there for the same reasons,” Anna says. “When I heard it was you and Uriel… Tell me, how soon after you found out Lilith wasn’t born an empire citizen, that she was naturalized, did you decide to kill her?”

Castiel seems to be thinking very hard about the diplomatic way to reply. Dean’s not sure about Lilith—she’s empire, on balance she’s probably a douche, but Anna doesn’t seem to think she deserved murder. “That Lilith was let into the military, not to mention that she was made praetor, is an atrocity. Lilith was a monster.” Okay, no, he's decided to say fuck diplomacy.

“Did you tell anyone about your charming attitudes before they let you onto a ship of—dare I remind you—commoners?”

Cas does the confused eye squint. “What are you talking about?”

“You know, I was naturalized too. Always had to hide it,” Anna says. “I mean, I wish I hadn’t joined the army, but when you’re fourteen, you don’t understand the politics of it. I just knew I’d never get anywhere as a commoner, I thought I was lucky when I got recruited. Only later did I realize that that’s the whole point. It's a pressure valve. They pick the ambitious kids, the bright ones, and they give them a stake in the empire. They tell you that if you’re good enough, you’ll get a piece of the pie yourself, so don’t stop baking.” Anna shudders. “What they don’t tell you is the prejudice. That you’ll remain an imposter all your life, that the very soldiers you fight side by side with won’t hesitate to kill you if they find out you’re not as _pure_ as them. Or burn you alive, it seems.”

“Anna, I’m sorry you felt threatened,” Castiel says. “I never would have hurt you. I respected you, I was devastated when I thought you’d died.”

“Do you believe that or are you just saying what I want to hear?” Anna wonders. “I was always sure that you were a good man, but why else would you work with Uriel of all people? Uriel would have killed me, he never kept his hatred for non-citizens quiet. I bet Michael’s stance on commoners was too lenient for him.”

“Exactly.”

“What?!”

“After you ‘died’, the unit was disbanded and some of us were sent to Sicilia. When I considered rebellion there, I wasn’t sure who to trust. But Uriel, Uriel could never have betrayed anyone to the corrections office without risking himself. Not when he never hid his traitorous disdain for Michael. Who better to confide in? It didn’t matter whether I agreed with Uriel—I didn’t—I couldn’t have found anyone safer. And after all, there are no friends in the army, only those who haven’t reported you yet.”

Jesus. No wonder Castiel’s the way he is, no wonder he likes to hide in the roles he assumes, when he’s lived most of his life—lived twenty-two years just waiting to be back-stabbed.

“And Lilith?” Anna asks, obviously placated.

“Uriel wanted her gone because she’s naturalized, you’re right. But Lilith was evil. Lilith reveled in murder. She ordered us to kidnap children to use for her own amusement. Her cousin was Alistair—I’m sure you remember him, five years ago we ‘accidentally’ raided one of his secret torture camps and killed his guards. And she _hired_ him.”

Anna looks horrified. “Wasn’t there any way to stop her?”

“I _tried_ ,” Castiel shouts. “I complained to Justice Zachariah that she wasn’t focused on the empire’s well-being, I tried to receive an audience with Raphael. No-one cared.” He swallows. “If Uriel hadn’t been stationed on Sicilia with me, or Balthazar, or Rachel, Lilith would still have her reign of blood. There was no choice. We did the only thing we could. We killed her, and we knew we’d die for it, but it was right.”

That’s Sam’s dreams dashed, then. No clever plot to take on Michael, only some desperate grunts trying to stop a massive abuse of power, like they’ve done before. Dean’s noticed the finger quotes around accidentally, and the timing’s right. Does that mean—?

“I know it’s too little, too late. I’m a murderer. I deserve my fate. Condemn me all you want, Anna,” Castiel says.

“Castiel, no,” she whispers, looking devastated. “I’m proud of you. I’m just sorry that you were so alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all: Sorry for being late replying to your lovely comments <3 Unfortunately I’ve spent this week in bed cursing the frailty of the human body (I had a bad cold, my voice is still gone) and didn’t actually use the computer. I had most of this chapter written up already (I split up last week’s for length) which is why there’s so little delay
> 
> Buccaneers did set up contracts according to which they divided their loot, including agreed-upon compensation for lost limbs (see [The Pirates of Panama, by A. O. Exquemelin, Chapter 5](http://www.gutenberg.org/files/26690/26690-h/26690-h.htm)). Apparently a lost finger was worth as much as a lost eye, which is not how I’d do the math, but okay.
> 
> Also, I really loved Cas’ and Uriel’s relationship on the show (sorry I killed you off as well, man). Considering what a totalitarian shithole heaven turns out to be, and that they’re diametrically opposed on humanity, they have extremely candid discussions about whether they’re considering disobedience, whether they can trust their superiors, …
> 
> Yay, Jo and Anna! I’m so glad to be writing AU fic because I can bring all my dead faves back. I know that generally Anna’s cast as Castiel’s big sister-type, and she was the one he told about his doubts, but they also had a complicated, more antagonistic relationship, whereas he and Jo were bros for the way too short time they knew each other.
> 
> This chapter title is brought to you by Adam and the Ants. The actual song’s not really emotionally appropriate for the chapter content, but everything else I considered was less fun, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who cares about this anyway, so there.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and commenting!


	8. I could live in whatever house you choose to build

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this bit: The word 'bitch' gets used.

_(_ _anything_ _to_ _save_ _me_ _a_ _place_ _beside_ _you_ _at_ _your table)_

 **Time: a. d.  iv  non.  okt, anno 2761. 09:14:03,866 RST.**  
**Location: ---**

 

All machines are the same anywhere, and so the Impala has swallowed Castiel seamlessly, integrating an extra cog into her well-oiled belly.

He has scrubbed the floors, and helped refuel, and washed clothes and dishes. He has looked at the weapons he will use. He has observed.

He hasn’t directly betrayed his emperor, and his vow to protect the people. Yet.

In the time since Castiel was unmade, they haven’t committed any robberies. This, apparently, isn’t unusual. Looting a town or trapping a ship takes immense amounts of planning. Ships, especially, are delicate. They blow up if you fire at them. Not a problem in Castiel’s former line of work, but if you’re interested in selling the contents, dispersing them with a massive explosion is not ideal. Consequently, ships are generally attacked while they’re grounded for refueling. One successful robbery in two months is considered a stroke of luck. The downtime between those heists is spent planning, and serving as a black-market transport ship as they are currently doing, on the way to Pontus to pick up someone else’s loot.

Currently, he is sitting in the main deck, getting acquainted with the Impala’s operating system, and which files and programs he is allowed access to.

When Charlie set up his account, she explained that it was a ‘standard redshirt account’, which Castiel was led to believe is one that is not endowed with the permission to install new programs or access to anything which could impair the Impala’s functioning. He was concerned by the lack of trust evinced by this choice, until he learned that Dean has one as well. According to Charlie, he had contracted a ‘virtual STD’ once too often when he was looking for material to ‘ignite his lightsaber, if you know what I mean’. Castiel has chosen not to ask her to clarify her mysterious technological words, since nothing she has told him about the computer was exactly pellucid. It shall be enough that he is like Dean in this respect.

“It’s a bit perverse to call you lot redshirts, I know,” Charlie said. “That sounds so callous. You aren’t, really, it doesn’t matter that you’re a spaceman and I’m the sysadmin on here, we’re equally important! And you’re probably Spock anyway! Dean started it!”

Castiel had just nodded, but after her explanation of the term he found it adequate. Castiel is, and has always been, expendable. That is his purpose: to follow his general, and to protect his dependents, and to perish in their stead, should the situation require it. Whether his general is the pirate who owns him or his legitimate superior in the military doesn’t affect this basic fact. That Castiel often acts to preserve himself, that he hides and pretends and schemes, is immaterial for this conclusion. It just shows that he isdefective.That if they were better at conducting quality checks on people, he would never have been allowed to leave the assembly line. He would have been re-melted straight away for the crack hat runs through his chassis.

Still, he when he mentioned his reasoning to Charlie, her expression went sad, and she mumbled something about ‘brainwashing’ and ‘talking to Dean about talking to Castiel about his horrible lack of self-worth’ and ‘you know that logically this means that other people would die for you, too’ before hugging him. (Dean hasn’t talked to him about that. Dean hasn’t talked to Castiel about anything, or been in the same room as Castiel for more than five minutes.)

Although his account was set up early, Castiel had decided that the computer wasn’t his first priority. This skill—it may be necessary for becoming an effective member of his new crew, which advances his chances of being necessary, but then, just sitting in front of the screen conflicted with his main goal. Survival.

Castiel cannot treat his position as just another job, where his fellow crew members will accord him respect if he fulfills his duties well. He isn’t among equals, or at least not fully, not yet. Not everyone here will consider him one: While every commander on the Impala has promised him personhood, he cannot assume everyone else will have the same beliefs.

So, he first opted to fulfill tasks that allowed him to observe the pirates. He blended into the background, and despite his unease when being away from the people he knows are safe, he didn’t need supervision most of the time, so he was rarely accompanied: and the pirates did not temper their opinions to appeal to their superiors. While half seem to follow Dean’s lead, the others hate him. Either because he used to be a citizen, or because he is marked as a slave, or both. Luckily, many of them don’t seem to be influential, although worryingly, Dean’s cousin is one of the people who have spat at him. Castiel remembers their names, and their habits, and keeps them in his sight.

Anna, luckily, seems to have warmed slightly to Castiel after their altercation. She keeps out of Castiel’s way, which is wise, because Gordon has insinuated that they are conspiring to destroy the Impala on Michael’s orders. Or perhaps it is Castiel avoiding her, because he can’t suppress the sense of betrayal he feels when he remembers she left. The shame he can’t help of standing before her, irrevocably marked as worthless. At what she made of her life, and how he destroyed his.

There appear to be no set roles, besides Dean being in charge, followed by Jo and Sam, and Ellen being the not-cook. Everyone does everything.

Everything includes using the computer, so Castiel can’t put it off any longer.

It’s just not as easy as it seems.

There are many files on the network folder, labeled cheap_ker_v29.txt and accounts.txt and dirt_on_bela_thebitcch.txt and cherrypie.txt and bathroom_cleaning-rota.txt, which was last opened seven years ago. There are copious maps of trade routes and planets filed according to a very erratic system, and it also appears to be filled to the brim with films. There are folders inside folders inside folders inside folders, some of which are labelled helpfully, and some of which are called ‘don’t look’.

It’s not that he’s thought of himself as particularly technically inept, before. He’s even used computers before to acquire information in his free time, certainly, though he has never been required to use one for his work.

Even if he had, though, it wouldn’t have prepared him for this. The computers Castiel knew aboard the Grace ships couldn’t have been more different from what the Impala is equipped with. Charlie has obviously retrofitted the old ship many times, the consoles are made up of pieces of hardware of varying origin, and they exclusively run something called FOSS or Charlie’s home-made programs, because, as she explained, commercial software includes too many backdoors by design to be of any use to clandestine criminals. Also, her custom locating and communication tools are much more powerful.

Castiel has been given no task he can work towards, except to ‘make himself at home. You know how to get to your email right? Obviously we don’t use the same browser you’re used to, just click here, okay, and…’ and so he should devise a system of his own by which to filter this wealth of information.

Thankfully, after he has spent two hours clicking aimlessly at things, Jo offers to help him.

“Wow, I had no idea we had so many contacts on Achaea!” she says. “Oh wait, this is really old—I think, yeah, that list’s from when John Winchester was captain. How did you end up here? We really need to clean this shit up sometime.” She closes all his open windows. “Let’s start again.”

The files they are currently using and keeping up-to-date turn out to be somewhere he hasn’t looked yet.

After instructing him in how to use the intercom, Jo touches Castiel’s arm. “You look really tired,” she says. “You drank five cups of coffee today. That I know of. Didn’t sleep well?”

Castiel sits up straighter. “I’m fine,” he says.

“You’ve seriously spent way too much time around Dean.”

“That cannot be true,” Castiel replies. “I have only spent about forty-five hours total in close proximity with Dean, and more than twenty hours of those were spent asleep. If you average that over the seventeen days I have known of his existence—”

“I meant because you give the same bullshit answers as him, but actually, that’s the problem, right? Dean’s ignoring you, and you’re not sleeping.”

“I fail to see how—” Castiel starts, although he knows exactly what Jo is alluding to.

“You trust Dean, right? ‘far as I know, you slept fine when you were alone with him. And now you’re in a dorm room, and you don’t trust anyone, and you don’t sleep.”

“I do sleep,” Castiel says. This is worrying. In all his time of observation, he hasn’t expected anyone to observe him _back_.

“Drop the act. You’re hypervigilant, which makes sense according to Anna. I’ve never seen you turn your back to anyone. But you jumped when I asked whether I could help you, and before you were staring at the screen for ten minutes without doing anything. You’re up before anyone else is, and when I went to check on you a few nights ago, your bed was empty. Do you even sleep in the dorm room? Dean’s asked me to keep an eye on you, you know.”

“If Dean wants to know about my whereabouts, why doesn’t he ask me?” Castiel asks sullenly.

Jo sighs. “Dean’s… you know. Complicated. I’m pretty sure he’s avoiding you because he’s somehow convinced himself he’s protecting you by staying away from you.”

“This life that Dean’s given me is better than any life I could have had without him. I would either have died, or I’d have been sold to someone who doesn’t believe in treating me nice.” Castiel frowns.

“Hey, I didn’t say it makes any sense, okay,” Jo says. “I already told him he’s being stupid. But he’s a big ball of issues. He was convinced I hated him for years after my dad died, and he wasn’t even on the mission where he bit it. Just—talk to him. Or maybe, don’t, Dean’s weird about feelings. I don’t—”

“Hey bitches, we’re about to cross paths with someone,” Charlie shouts as she bounds into the main deck. “Hey Jo, Cas! How are you doing? Do you mind if I—?” Castiel shakes his head, so she sits down on his other side and leans to speak into his intercom. “Avengers assemble. Ship spotted, peeps.” She types something into Castiel’s computer.

Jo nudges Castiel. “Excited to get some action?” she asks.

Before Castiel can think of something to answer that masks his dread at finding out how far he’ll go to save his own skin, Charlie talks again. “It’s a transport ship. Flight number Oscar Sierra India dash Mike Alpha November dash Three-One X-Ray, they’re shipping rare metals from Cappadocia to Thrace. Among other things, it’s a huge freighter. Sam, you should probably check the radar for armed escorts of any sorts, but according to the internal communication they’re unaccompanied.”

“Okay, so what do we do?” Jo asks. “Shoot or avoid? The last one of those suckers, we wasted on the first hit. Shame about those computer parts.”

“We’ll leave them be,” Sam says as he strides in, Dean in tow. “They’re probably gonna refuel in Bithynia’s main port. We don’t have the strength to attack that city.”

“I say we shoot ‘em,” Gordon offers. He is one of the people who dislike Castiel, and Anna, and he is popular among the crew which bodes badly, but he is also a very careful man. Castiel has found no opportunities to remove him. “We don’t get the money, but who knows what those metals are gonna be used for.”

“There are seventy people on that ship!” Victor replies, appalled. He is very reserved around Castiel, but not hateful. Castiel has overheard him talking to Dean about Castiel being a convicted mass-murderer. Dean had replied that they are all murderers, Victor included. ‘That’s just the way it goes,’ Dean had said. ‘The only innocents are the poor sons of bitches starving to death without us.’ Victor had looked angry, and then resigned.

“No to pointless carnage,” Dorothy seconds, and then she walks over to Charlie and quickly kisses her cheek.

“This isn’t pointless carnage. The only reason the empire is sustainable is because of the merchant ships,” Gordon responds. “One of those ships full of your _innocent people_ carried the lead they melted into the bullet they put into my sister’s head.”

“We can’t just kill everyone who does anything for the empire ever,” Sam says reasonably. “We shouldn’t shoot them. I vote we let them pass.”

“Or—we could just wait them out,” Castiel finds himself saying. He shouldn’t—but he won’t have killed those people if they do this. And material damage is easy to replace. Castiel needs this opportunity, to prove to Dean that he is useful.

Dean stares at him, as if he has only just noticed that Castiel is on this ship as well.

“We don’t have to shoot them down. It’s simple, pursuit predation. The ship’s been in flight for five days if it flew in a straight line. It’s a MAN ship, their maximum range is already much lower than the Impala’s. And freight ships rarely carry more fuel than absolutely necessary for their purposes. They will want to avoid engagement—and if we herd them away from populated planets, they should run out of kerosene fast.”

“Great idea, but the cavalry’s gonna arrive way before that’ll happen, Cas,” Dean objects.

“Not necessarily. I am assuming you are monitoring their communication?”

Charlie nods.

“So we can ascertain whether they’ve spotted us yet,” Castiel says.

Charlie grins. “They haven’t.”

“A few well-aimed shots will take out their means of communicating or sending distress signals without damaging the ship. Anna will be able to hit them, or if you instruct me in the use of your guns, then I can, too. They will be incapable of signaling for assistance, and they will not be able to fly towards Bithynia if we act now. Then, it is a simple matter of waiting for them to either perform an emergency landing on an empty planet or to keep drifting in space without being able to evade us.”

Jo looks at him, stunned.

“Oh yeah,” Dean says. “Cas knows his shit.”

The warmth Castiel feels at being praised is tainted by the bitter knowledge of his selfishness.

“All in favor of Cas’ plan say _Aye, aye, captain_ ,” Dean says.

~

Dean was convinced that Castiel was good before—someone who fights like he does, with the ease he manages to exploit mistakes, to attack before his enemies can even think to fight back, someone like that could thrive on the Impala. But he couldn’t have predicted just how incredible Cas is. He’s revolutionized their modus operandi without any practical experience.

The plan goes off without a hitch. Just as Cas said, Anna shoots their comms to hell, and just as he predicted, the freighter tries to flee, before running out of fuel after half a day and crash-landing on an empty planet.

The Impala follows leisurely and touches down out of range of most of their weapons, energy shielding turned on.

The main problem, it turns out, is that with the communication system destroyed, there’s no way to send their prey any messages. No easy way to negotiate their surrender. At least Charlie gets the Impala to project a short message on the ground: “We don’t plan to kill you. Come out and talk.”

Since the planet’s uninhabited for a reason—the atmosphere’s just a little bit toxic—Dean’s people have put on light armored space-suits before walking over towards the people who’ve disembarked the freighter, weapons at the ready.

Castiel refuses to let Dean walk in front. (He’s incredibly protective. Dean wonders whether that’s just how he is—after all, he unknowingly saved Dean from Alistair, he took on Lilith to help people. He’s _good_. Dean’s savior, and what did he do to him? He condemned him to a fate worse than death. But even if Dean can’t ever make it right, he vows to make Cas’ world as safe as is humanly possible.)

It’s just as well that Cas is vigilant—they’re met with bullets. Nothing their suits energy shields can’t handle, but still not nice. Dean pokes Cas, who’s thrown him on the ground and shielded him with his body, with his elbow to signal that he wants to be let back up.

“Didn’t they get the message?” Sam shouts.

“Don’t bust my eardrums, asshole,” Jo replies. The speakers inside their helmets really aren’t calibrated for loud volumes. What an oversight. Dean should work on them a bit as soon as they’re on Pontus.

Thankfully, Charlie, who’s stayed behind on the Impala, comes through. “I’ve hacked their internal communications system,” she says. You’ll be able to talk. Red button on your wrist if it’s something we can’t let them hear. You’ll be added—NOW.”

“Shit, they’re alive. We have any anti-armor stuff at all?” a man says.

“No. What kind of fucking—”

“Hi,” Dean says. “I’m Dean.” And winces at the pandemonium of panicked voices when they realize they’re not alone anymore. He fires into the air, which doesn’t shut them up. He shouts “Shut up! We just want your money! That’s what _your money or your life_ means, you know!”, which does, for a second. “We’re going to let you go, and even give you something to signal S-O-S with. If you cooperate. We’ll take everything from your ship while you gather over there—”

“It’s a trick! They’re gonna enslave us!” a woman shouts. The chaotic screaming takes off again.

“You aren’t criminals, you can’t be unmade,” Cas says. “And if you’re people, you can’t be sold.”

“Cas, you do know that some pirates just brand people themselves if they want to make quick bucks?” Sam says, pressing the button. “It’s a thing.”

“But—” Cas looks stunned.

“No offense,” Dean says. “But if Mike was serious about proscription being only imposed upon the worst of the worst, he really shouldn’t have made the brand so damn easy to fake.”

The people they’re robbing are screaming even more now. Someone faints. Whoops, they can hear everything. Time for damage control.

“For the record: not us,” Dean says. “We don’t even believe in slavery.”

“Liar! You got a slave!” a woman—the captain, according to her stripes—shouts. “There!” She points at Cas, whose brand is clearly visible through his helmet’s visor.

“He’s—”

“I’m a free man,” Castiel says. “My captain doesn’t treat me as an unperson. I am a full member of his crew, and I am treated like everybody else. I am allowed to say no. This is what my life is, as long as I stay on this ship. And the universe is just. Its will is mediated through the behaviour of people. If I didn’t deserve to live like a person, I wouldn’t live like one.” He looks at Dean, almost pleadingly. “So—this means, that I am still a person, in—” He swallows. “In spite of the brand.”

“Yeah, Cas,” Dean whispers. “You’re free, and I’d die before I let anyone take that away from you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter! This took me a bit longer than I’d have liked (being at uni takes up more time than being on a break. Who knew?), and I had to move an event to a later chapter or I’d never have finished, but here it is. Partially inspired by the intricate organically grown system of folders on the work computer, which precedes me by some years and which we are occasionally told will be cleaned up soon (as if)
> 
> I hope that the way space piracy works here makes sense somehow. No breaking and entering, but I just couldn't get that to work
> 
> Thank you Jonathon Green for the Big Book of Filth, which is where all of my sex euphemisms come from.
> 
> The chapter title’s from Emmy the Great’s _A woman, a woman, a century of sleep_.
> 
> Thank you for reading and commenting and everything!
> 
> ETA 2016-04-09: added Time/Location subheader. Subtitle's from Your Money by the Indelicates.


	9. I caused a major war just by talking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this bit: Sexist slur implied. Sexist and ableist dismissal of a woman's anger. Dehumanization. Violence and minor character deaths.

“—not that the look on his face wasn’t sweet. But I disagree. The best haul ever was the one where we accidentally robbed the pâtisserie guy,” Dean is saying to Gordon when Castiel enters the main deck.

No-one but Dean, Gordon, Creedy, Kubrick and Charlie are there yet, even though the summons had been issued a full quarter-hour ago. Castiel has intentionally delayed his arrival so as to blend in with the crew, ignoring his sense that his first training-master might show up any time, to punish him for dawdling just as he’d done when Castiel had once remained in bed for an additional ten minutes because he hadn’t yet learned to subordinate his impulses to his orders. And yet, he still hasn’t managed to approximate the average response time of the pirates—the _other_ pirates, Castiel reminds himself. Because what else is he, now?

“The man of the hour! We were just talking about you,” Dean says.

Castiel just about manages to school his face into utter impassivity even as he senses that expressing an emotion might better serve his survival—the right emotion, but which will make Dean keep Castiel? Probably not abject fear, even though it doesn’t leave any room inside Castiel for anything else. Castiel has been complacent. He _knew_ Gordon and his friends would be dangerous, and yet—

“It’s like you’re a natural. I mean, we’ve had raids with more loot—we’ve had some spectacular booty. Like, I was just saying, a few years ago we mixed up the flight numbers and we accidentally robbed this flying pastry restaurant,” Dean carries on, oblivious. It doesn’t sound like he’s leading up to telling Castiel that he doesn’t want him anymore, unless he is deliberately trying to lull him into a false sense of security. But no, Dean isn’t cruel. Castiel’s fear was inappropriate. Just because Kubrick’s only interaction with Castiel has been to spit at him, just because he has heard Gordon talk to others about the parasitic empire, and, when Castiel failed to disappear unnoticed, whisper about spies and sabotage missions and _You’ve fooled Dean, but I know where your loyalties lie, you rat, and I’m watching you_ —

“Gordon’s more partial to the ones where we disrupt arms supplies, granted, but where’s the fun in that, eh?” Castiel doesn’t quite understand how fun would be relevant to piracy. “So I don’t know why you’re so down about this robbery, considering how they now have some tons less coltan for their Grace mark 9 computer systems,” Dean continues, frowning at Gordon.

Castiel can guess why Gordon’s unenthused—Castiel made this robbery happen (Castiel betrayed his vow to protect the people to ingratiate himself to pirates), and unless Gordon is hiding his disdain for all things (formerly) empire… actually, Gordon only talks about his suspicions about Castiel when Dean isn’t there. Maybe Gordon believes that Dean is too stubborn to just believe him. But that doesn’t mean Gordon isn’t doing anything to change Dean’s mind—just that he’s being more subtle…

“Plus, there’s the captain’s shiny new space-suit,” Charlie adds. “Like, talk about a two-class system! The crew’s suits were at least five years old, their helmet cams only had a res of one megapixel and no facial recog software whatsoever. Are we in the stone age or what? I mean yeah, half our suits aren’t much better, but we’re scavengers!”

“I’ve tried it on, by the way,” Jo tells them as she enters, most of the rest of the crew in tow. “Thanks for letting me have first pick. It’s a five-eighter, probably custom. I feel a bit like I’m swimming in it. Maybe you can deal, but I’m guessing it should go to Dorothy or Tracy. Guess I’ll live with my scratched visor for a little longer.”

“Worth a try,” Sam says, and turns on the intercom. “Last call for the crew meeting.”

Dean leans over as well and says, “We’re going to vote on the buyer without you!”

Before Castiel became a pirate, he never would have dreamed of the sheer number of crew meetings they have: for new members, on which food to buy, where to fly next, whether to attack, who ate the last piece of pie even though Dean specifically put a post-it with his name on the plate, how to divide the loot, to provide accountability on dividing the loot. The list goes on. At nearly every meeting, there is a discussion followed by a vote. The pirates argue ten times as much as they spend time working. Castiel shudders to think of what they could achieve if they had a functional chain of command.

Their current argument appears to be one they have had so many times that everyone knows everyone else’s positions so well they don’t actually have to be stated in full sentences. It seems to be purely pro forma.

Castiel is very confused.

“Bela Talbot,” Jo says.

Dean groans and says “She’s a b—”

“Pays well,” Gwen says.

“Smug—”

“Reliable,” says Charlie.

“Any alternative options?” Jo asks.

“Cro—”

“All in favor of Bela say aye. Okay, that’s twenty-six to one,” Sam says, although he hasn’t paused for long enough for anyone to actually say anything. “Bela wins.”

Dean curses quietly.

“Usual terms?” Sam asks. “Me negotiator?”         

Everyone nods.

Dean mumbles something, but he doesn’t seem angry. He’s probably used to the humiliation of his crew completely siding against him. Castiel wishes he would have been included in the incomprehensible ritual so he could have voted against Bela, if only to find out how Dean would have gratefully smiled at him for the support.

But maybe the cosmos has decided to punish Dean’s crew for their insubordination, instead.

“C’mon, pick up the damn phone,” Sam says, after trying to ring her for the fifth time.

On the way out, while Dean’s back is turned, Creedy shoves Castiel so hard he almost stumbles.

~

Dean’s only in the mess hall to get some grub for Sammy and Jo, who’re still stubbornly trying to contact Bela although she’s been ignoring them for two days now, and it’s not as if fencers are a scarce resource. But no, they have to adhere to the majority decision or whatever, and now Dean’s in the mess hall even though he knows that Castiel always eats lunch right about now. But if Dean had said ‘no’ to fetching Sam food, he’d have known that something is up, and he’d have guessed that Dean’s avoiding Castel, and no matter how sound Dean’s logic is Sam’s gonna disagree and Dean already has one little sister nagging him to talk to Cas.

And anyway, no matter what Jo keeps saying, Cas is getting better, steadily. He’s actually doing pretty well for himself.

Currently, he’s exchanging a few quiet words with Kevin about some weird historical shit—Kevin was just about to take his final exams at some elite school before he got caught up in some shit and had to flee, so it might be surprising that Cas can keep up so well with the boy genius, but then again, Cas is wicked smart. After five minutes, Castiel turns towards Cassie, who’s sitting to his left, and talks to her as well.

It’s something he has caught Castiel doing many times now, exchanging pleasantries with the friendly members of the crew like he’s out canvassing the electorate. (Dean’s not jealous that Castiel gets along with people other than himself, and even if he were, that’s just more evidence that he’s made the right decision.)

Cas looks down at his food again, apparently satisfied with his effort to be social. Even if he hasn’t been sleeping well, he’s been eating (not that Ellen would have tolerated him skipping meals) and his once-gaunt face is slowly looking healthy again—if tired, and slightly greasy and stubbled because in addition to his phobia of beds, he doesn’t trust the shower room. He’s filling his shirts out much better as well, too—Dean catches Pamela looking at Cas, a clearly speculative look on her face. He makes a note to talk to her later.

It’s not that Dean’s a jealous creep, or an overprotective mother hen, but Cas obviously has some hang-ups about sex, and he’s still in a vulnerable position—won’t ever stop being vulnerable, thanks to Dean, even if he was absolutely safe on the Impala, and he obviously isn’t, and doesn’t feel it either. The lack of sleeping, the sub-standard personal hygiene and the talking to everyone to figure out how they view him all attest to that.

Dean’s been good, he really has, setting up Cas with nice new friends like Jo and Charlie who, if worst comes to worst, won’t hesitate to keep Dean and his crush away from him.

He’s been talking to Anna as well, both to find out how Cas thinks so Dean won’t accidentally proposition him (again), and to make sure there’s no bad blood between her and Cas. Dean cares about Anna a lot, he probably would have loved her if she hadn’t made it clear that their time together was a one night stand thing only, and that she wasn’t looking for anything more. But Dean is _responsible_ for Cas. And he owes him. If push comes to shove, if he had to choose between Cas and any other crew, he’d choose to protect Cas.

Because even in the best-case-scenario, Cas is only safe as long as he’s on the Impala—that’s what he said, even, _I’m a person as long as I stay on this ship._ And Jesus, was Dean proud of him, and happy, and grateful, when Cas said that. It made him think that maybe, one day, they could be okay, even though that’s delusional, and—

“You’re thinking awfully hard there, Dean,” Ellen says. “You’ve been staring at Castiel for twenty minutes now, completely zoned out. You know—if you need to talk to someone, I’m always there.”

“Thanks, Ellen,” Dean mumbles and flees to the main deck as fast as he can.

Apparently, there’s still nothing from Bela. If they waste a tank of fuel flying towards Portus and then back just because Bela’s left her communicator behind while she spends a week in a spa, Dean’s gonna kill her.

“Maybe something happened to her,” Jo says.

Fingers crossed.

“Charlie, can you try to track her down?”

“Give me a few seconds,” Charlie replies, and gets to typing. She uhms and aahs to herself for a bit, and then dials a number she’s dug out from the depths of the net.

Half a minute later, the computer screen fills with Bela’s snarling face. Even the left side of it looks sort of scrunched up, though maybe Dean’s imagining that.

“You know, I thought a disconnected number was a clear sign that a girl just isn’t interested,” she hisses. “But I have misjudged your interest in consent. Clearly. Just as I misjudged the rest of your moral character—but you’ve shown your faces. You’re no better than the other rapists. I’d have expected better from you, Harvelle.”

“But—”

“Spare me,” Bela says. “Do not contact me again. Ever. I hope you’ll die by the Catherine wheel when they catch you.”

“What—”

“Fuck off,” Bela snaps, and the screen turns to black.

“Looks like it’s someone’s time of the month again,” Dean says, just to lighten the mood. He definitely doesn’t deserve to be punched in the head for that, so thanks, Jo.

“That’s not funny, Dean,” Charlie says. “Like, I've told you before: The stereotype that menstruating women are somehow irrationally—”

“Can we just focus, guys,” Jo says. “What’s going on with Bela? I’ve never seen her this angry before. And why the fuck does she think we’re rapists?”

To be honest, Dean doesn’t see how Bela’s psychotic break is in any way their problem.

Jo and Charlie may think otherwise, but Bela’s always been peculiarly high-maintenance for a business partner—the worst she’s done to Dean up to now may just have been sniping at his general self-worth and mommy issues and torture trauma, but at least it seemed like she’d deign to piss on them if they were on fire. Maybe. If she got money out of it. With most of the other pirate crews, though, Dean’s heard that she refuses to even talk to them. The kinda silent treatment they’re apparently getting as well now.

Why is anyone’s guess, but with the snit she pulled just now, she apparently has a major problem with some aspect of piracy?

Dean wonders what the fuck she was thinking was financing her luxurious lifestyle all the time, if she’s so much better than them. And how she plans to keep it up, now. Talk about cutting off your nose to spite your face.

“Should we try Crowley, then?” Sam asks.

“Probably sensible,” Jo concedes. “But maybe Bela’ll come round, I don’t know. Crew vote again?”

Dean definitely doesn’t mention how much time they could have saved if they’d accepted he was right about Bela in the first place.

But before Sam can activate the intercom, Charlie butts in.

“Look at this, you have to see this,” she says, and points to her monitor. “Breaking news, right this second.”

On her screen, there’s a news broadcast video. It’s from Acta Diurna Bithynia, one of the many local channels of the state-owned news corporation, which means it’s reputable (or, as Sam would say, propaganda), and in the paused video you can see the captain they left on a lifeless planet two days ago with nothing but a fuelless plundered ship and a remotely disabled radio that they turned on again yesterday so the crew could call for help.

“So, you know how I’ve set up a few alerts, right? A word is mentioned somewhere, I get the info, you know—standard stuff. This is from one of the ones for Sam, for tracking revolutionary movements. The key word’s Castiel. And he’s—you know, it’s easiest if I just show you.”

She moves the progress bar back and starts the video as Sam, Jo and Dean crowd around her.

“Shocking news today that the unperson known as the former captain Castiel has committed blasphemy,” the news presenter says, his face next to a close-up of Castiel’s freshly branded face. “Castiel last year committed treason in Sicilia province and, together with three co-conspirators, murdered Sicilian praetor Lilith and fifty-seven other people. His trial was criticized when the Sicilian High Judge unilaterally decided to apply proscription to punish a Roman citizen for the first time in our history, in a move several groups including senior military personnel described as ‘scandalous’ and ‘a signal of disrespect to our hard-working troops’.

“Now, Thracian transport ship captain Alice Miller alleges that Castiel has joined a pirate group and aided in robbing her vessel. Even worse, Castiel claimed that in spite of being unmade, he was, quote, a free man.”

The video now switches to Castiel talking, filmed by someone’s helmet cam. His bird mark is clearly visible through his helmet’s visor, even as he’s talking of freedom. Dean can’t help the admiration he feels, especially now he’s been told that this is apparently blasphemy, that for Cas to believe he still deserves to be treated well means to go against everything he’s been taught is right. “… I am still a person, in, in spite of the brand,” Cas finishes, and when the video switches back to the presenter Dean feels a phantom urge to rewind.

“The Bithynian High Judge commented on Castiel’s erroneous and self-serving reinterpretation of accepted theological dogma. She said, ‘Criminals such as pirates often act in irrational ways, even going so far as to refuse to punish those the universe has deemed unworthy. Castiel’s fallacy is that he ascribes significance to those actions, instead of accepting his status, which among any right-thinking people is lower than a worm’s.’ Information on Castiel’s whereabouts and that of his owner, Robert Plant, will be rewarded,” the presenter finishes.

That’s one complication Dean hasn’t expected. And clearly, neither has anyone else.

“Shit, do you think we should have covered the mark up with makeup?” Jo asks.

“That’s forbidden, though,” Sam says. “Very steep penalty, I think it was death both for the deceiving unperson and all accessories. It makes their world-view inconsistent, if you can just escape from the punishment that apparently the frigging _cosmos_ is meting out with a bit of paint. Though, I guess, that’s happening anyway because he’s not a slave here, that’s why they’re angry. Castiel has to see this. I’ll go fetch him.”

~

When the crew’s chosen fencer still hadn’t answered the call on the second day, their activities had come to a halt. The Impala is floating in space, vaguely towards Pontus but as long as no other ships are spotted, she will conserve fuel above all.

There is nothing to do.

Castiel decides to visit the shower room. He hasn’t been able to clean himself up as often as he probably is expected to because there are often people inside, people who are not Dean, and although Castiel could beat any of them alone if they were bare-handed, the chance of someone coming in, armed, while Castiel doesn’t have his coat on him with his hidden knife that he was given by Jo—

But Castiel’s facial hair has been growing, and he should remove it. Dean specifically wanted his face clean-shaven, that’s why he helped Castiel when he arrived on the ship. If Castiel asked, maybe Dean would help ag—no. If he is capable of doing it by himself, then he has to do it by himself. Jo believes that Dean wants to know about Castiel, but that doesn’t mean that Dean wants to spend time with Castiel. That’s not why he bought Castiel. Sam thinks Castiel has historical significance, maybe Dean likes knowing that he owns someone like that. No. Dean is a good man, and he wants Castiel to have a safe—

Passing the space suit storage room, Castiel pauses. He knows those voices.

Inside, Kubrick and Creedy are unfavorably discussing Dean’s leadership style.

Castiel stays still to listen and look around first. No sign of anyone else in the corridor, and statistically this part of the ship is frequented rarely during the early afternoon, right after lunch and particularly if there is no immediate task at hand. Everyone is taking a break in their door rooms or in the gym or doing other tasks to pass their ample leisure time. This is, after all, why Castiel decided to tend to his personal hygiene here, now.

The opportunity presenting itself—Walker will be suspicious, but his disdain can hardly be increased. Likewise with the others Castiel has deemed ‘hostile’. And Kevin dislikes the condescension, that Kubrick believes anyone’s objections are just because they’re too stupid to understand his point of view. Victor disagrees with them on moral grounds. Jo, Charlie and many other female crew have complained to him about harassment and dismissive attitudes. And Dean—Dean believes Castiel has the right to say no. He believes that he has the right to defend himself.

And Castiel will be defending himself, will look as if he is defending himself.

Castiel prepares to let the knife slide out of his sleeve into his hand.

“Hello,” he says, and steps inside.

His opponents obviously believe this is their chance to overpower Castiel—to teach him a lesson, as they say—and it takes no goading to turn his proactive self-defense into actual self-defense as they pull out their swords. They have no guns, as Castiel knew they wouldn’t, since they can’t be fired inside, because most ships only have a shielded outside hull: an explosion inside could damage vulnerable parts, and even puncture the walls. They only have themselves, the two of them, and they have never faced death before. They’ve never had to scramble for their lives. Or they’d be afraid now.

“C’mon, beg, you bastard. Not so funny now, huh,” Kubrick says. “Where does a slave get off, criticizing a free man for talking to a woman?”

Without a word, Castiel advances and punches Kubrick’s sword arm aside before stabbing the knife into his jugular.

His victim gasps, once, twice, then he falls.

Creedy shouts, and drops his weapon in fear. He isn’t clever, or he would use Castiel’s momentary distraction as he picks up Kubrick’s sword to attack or flee. Instead, he steps backwards into a corner, cutting off his own escape routes.

Castiel thrusts the sword into the man’s eye socket and waits until he is dead before turning around.

He starts.

Sam’s there, in the doorway. He looks shocked. There’s no way to ascertain how much he’s seen. There’s a communicator in his hand.

Castiel backs away. He stumbles—directly behind him, there’s Creedy’s corpse—how could Castiel forget?

Sam still hasn’t said anything.

Castiel should explain. He needs words, the right words. “I—I had to, defend—”

“Sam, what’s—Jesus Christ!” Dean shouts, panting from running inside. “Cas, are you okay, you’re covered in blood!” Dean’s by Castiel’s side in seconds, no regard for the sword as he pats Castiel down. “Are you hurt?” he asks frantically.

The misplaced concern jolts Castiel out of his stupor. “Don’t worry, Dean, I was just—”

“You were just defending yourself. Right. I’m so sorry, Cas.”

“What—”

“I thought you’d be safe, I really did. That you wouldn’t get attacked on here. I knew you were scared, but I thought, hey, that’s just the acclimatization period, he’ll be fine. I’m so sorry, I should have known. I promised you you’d be safe here, and I broke that promise, I’m such a shitty captain.” Dean looks sad.

“Dean, I’m fine,” Castiel says, because this isn’t Dean’s fault—this was Castiel’s doing, he decided to enter this room. He shouldn’t have done it—wouldn’t have, if he’d known Dean would blame himself.

“No, you’re not,” Dean says. “But you will be. I’ll do anything to stop this from happening again. Creedy and Kubrick are lucky they’re dead. I promise to you, I’ll keep the promise I made. You can sleep in my room, if you need to. I’ll get a hammock. I’ll—”

“Dean, there’s something—” Sam begins.

“Later, Sam, okay?” Dean says. “C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long! Being ill sucks.
> 
> Unfortunately trying to mention the eyeliner everyone’s secretly wearing felt very much like shoehorning in this chapter. One day though.
> 
> Title’s from Skunk Anansie’s 100 Ways to Be a Good Girl and, technically, very spoilery but the spoiler's already in the summary. I almost took a different line from the song--Flew into a rage, 'cos that's everything I know--but this one just fits better.
> 
> Thank you for your patience! And for reading and commenting.


	10. I've seen the future and this is how it begins

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this bit: Dehumanization, sexist slurs, implied rape (the possibility thereof) and torture (past), violence, minor character deaths. Basically nothing worse than the previous chapters.

Sam’s left, and Dean slowly coaxes Castiel out of the room like he’s a particularly startled horse. The guy’s wide-eyed, finely trembling, clutching his short sword as if it’s the only solid thing left in the world. If it were anyone else, Dean would have suspected it’s because of the carnage—sure, pirates fight sometimes, but they’re more into sneak attacks or demonstratively showing their superior firepower to make the enemy surrender. After all, they have to conserve their numbers and can’t risk losing crew during the battle.

But Castiel has already seen violence on a much larger scale. Has perpetrated it, even, and gleefully.

This version’s so different from the collected guy who prayed over his enemies in the arena. In fact, Cas’ current state reminds Dean of nothing so much as of another moment in the coliseum: when Zachariah was droning on about punishment, and Cas realized he was going to be unmade. When he essentially lost his whole world, his whole sense of self and worth.

That’s what this is right now, in terms of enormity.

Back then, it was his status—now, Dean doesn’t know what he could have lost that’s as important. Security? Cas has only been on the Impala for two weeks. Dean knows he’s adaptable, maybe the most adaptable person Dean’s ever met, doggedly refusing to stop thriving no matter what impossible situation is thrown at him, and ain’t that another vital factor Dean had failed to consider before he thought up his hare-brained scheme of recruiting an unmade citizen.

He’s so, so lucky that it was Castiel and not anyone else.

“Dean,” Cas says, and pulls Dean out of his mind.

Right, potentially injured and definitely in shock patient to treat. “Yeah, Cas, c’mon let’s get you to my room first before we deal with this, for privacy, you know?” Dean whispers back.

But Cas is still stuck on something else. He begs, “Dean, please, I’m still useful, it was an accident, you can’t send me away. And I know how this looks, and with Sam, when I—but please, Dean—”

And Dean finally understands.

This kind of power over another’s life he unwittingly gained—and still Cas comes to him for protection. Cas _trusts_ him.

There’s no choice about what to say now.

It may be the stupidest vow he ever makes in his life, and on one level he’s fucking terrified at the power he’s about to hand over to Cas, but on the other he just has to get that look off Cas’ face now, and permanently.

“That’s what you’re so scared about? I promise you, okay, I don’t care. I didn’t understand before—but Jo told me off for ignoring you, because apparently you’re fixated on me because I’m the first person in months who was nice to you and everything, and Anna clarified a few things, about, you know, how severe this unperson shit really is out there, and this is all my fault anyway, but—Castiel, I promise you,” Dean takes hold of Cas’ face and looks him straight in the eye because he has to understand this, “I promise, no matter what happens, no matter what you do. I will never tell you to leave. I will never leave you. Whatever you do—you can basically murder the world, and it would still be my job to protect you. I get that that probably makes me a shitty person or a shit captain, and I should draw the line somewhere, but I also know that no matter what you do, what the people out there will do to you is ten times worse.”

Cas looks a little (a lot) dazed, so Dean shakes him a little to drive the point home again.

“I swear to you, as long as you’re with me, and I’ll never leave you, so that’s basically forever—you’ll never be alone again. You’ll be safe, because I’ll protect you. And you’ll always be a person, because I’ll fuck up every single son of a bitch who says otherwise so bad they’ll wish their grandparents had never been born. And I don’t care whether it’s a member of my own fucking crew or the emperor himself. Understood?”

Cas nods, but Dean kinda wants a verbal confirmation, so he presses on.

“And I will say that as many times as I need to get it carved into that thick skull of yours. If you ever get scared again, just ask me, and I will repeat this entire diatribe word for word as often as you want.”

“Dean, I—” Cas looks like he’s about to cry, which Dean’s got a front-seat view for because apparently he’s still clutching Cas’ face like a kid that’s scared his favorite toy is about to be snatched away. Or—like this was a heart-felt love confession about to end in a kiss. Point is, this tableau vivant is decidedly too intimate for what’s actually going on here.

Dean lets go and steps back.

Cas releases a shuddering breath. “Thank you, I can’t even—what do you mean, ‘this is all my fault anyway’?”

Not too awestruck to listen to Dean at all, then. Just his luck.

Dean could lie, because what he’s about to confess is guaranteed to blow their fragile accord to smithereens. He doesn’t even know why he considers telling the truth—maybe it’s the (supremely selfish) knowledge that, as they’ve just established, Cas can’t go anywhere, he’s stuck. So no matter what, he won’t leave, and Dean will get the chance to make it up to him.

If that’s even possible.

Still, what’s the alternative? Leaving that truth to fester between them won’t save anyone when Cas does find out, and Dean’s learned the hard way that when you live with someone 24/7, and you occasionally get drunk off your ass to forget your many failures, everything’s bound to slip out sooner or later.

So he steels himself for hatred, and meets Cas’ gaze head-on.

“There’s someth—” He clears his throat. Cas deserves for Dean to acknowledge that this snafu is his doing loud and clear, and not in that hoarse half-voice that just came out of his throat. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you. You have to believe me, I didn’t know it was like this. Jesus, those men—I’m sorry. But basically: It was my idea, I talked Zach into making you a slave. Into imposing proscription. I’m so sorry, Cas. I understand if you wanna—”

Cas looks like the bottom just dropped out of his world.

Dean feels like the worst piece of shit on earth, but then again, that’s a feeling that he’s used to, and doesn’t that say everything there is to know about what kind of person Dean is?

“You… did?” Cas whispers. “But why?”

“There’s no excuse, I—”

“Did you—but no, you’re not angry because of Lilith’s death, are you?” Cas narrows his eyes, suddenly calculating. “You don’t like the empire. You’re in favor of revolution. You feel guilt, that much is clear, so it wasn’t malicious. And no-one knew I was coming, so it wasn’t pre-planned, or even well-thought-out. It’s more likely—you said you needed manpower, and the sorry size of your crew supports that. You were desperate for crew, and you saw me fight. But you couldn’t get close to me, much less get me out of the coliseum without major expenditure, especially since you were alone.”

That’s… not the kind of reaction Dean expected, at all.

“But when people are unmade, they leave the arena, physically alive, and you obviously haven’t learned that proscription is a much more fundamental death—it’s unlikely that you’d be this ignorant if you’d been educated anywhere, even Pontus has public schools, but you weren’t, were you? You were clearly raised aboard a spaceship, your knowledge is barely above that of completely neglected feral children. Why you have been purposely uprooted completely from empire culture—as I said, most pirates aren’t, but you, that’s a complete break. Parents who were hunted—but no, they’d have been well-known. Angry, then?”

“My mom was killed by a misaimed empire missile when I was four,” Dean whispers.

“And your father refused to let you know the world that killed her.”

“You have to understand—the isolation, my dad meant well, okay? He was just—when Mom died, he was broken. And he didn’t know a thing about raising—he did the best he could!”

“Doing your best, when you’re at a complete loss, generally entails asking for help.”

“He didn’t need help, okay, because I was there, and I knew what I was doing.”

“You were a child.”

Dean hits back. “As if your life was so much better, Mr child soldier. Tell me, at what age were you told to kill for the first time?”

Cas doesn’t answer, but it’s not what’s important anyway.

“Look, let’s agree not to psychoanalyse my childhood, okay? Or yours. Just—are we good?”

“We’re… ‘good’,” Cas says, swallowing. “I don’t know how to—all those months, in the arena, I fought so hard. I killed my friend when they sent him into the ring with me. And all along, I knew they wouldn’t let me out, even if I survived for a year, they’d find something. I knew I’d die soon. But I didn’t want to, and so I fought.”

Dean hugs him, overwhelmed by the mental image of Cas stepping out of his cell, day after day after day, and counting down the seconds to his grave.

“I don’t… I’m not happy I was unmade, but… I was dead, the moment I decided to stop Lilith. You’ve given me another life, Dean. Thank you.”

The door bangs.

Dean would have jumped back, but Cas has laid down his head on his shoulder and so Charlie is treated to the whole incriminating scene.

“Here you—sorry, I didn’t know you were—I’ll come back later,” she shouts and flushes.

“No need,” Dean says, mortified, and untangles himself. “What did you want to tell me?”

“Just a status update—we’ve voted to sell to Crowley since Bela’s out—still trying to figure out the ‘rapist’ comment, bee-tee-dubs, did you do something on Sicilia?—and set course to Cyprus. Should arrive in seven-ish days,” Charlie says. “Now, Cas, how’d you take the news that you’re officially a heretic in addition to a revolutionary now?”

Oh right, there was a reason why he’d gone to look for him. He was scared that the blasphemy moniker would make Cas regress again from his timidly articulated new sense of self-worth.

Cas just stares at her.

“Really, Dean? What did you do in that room for the last hour? Wait, don’t tell me, TMI.” She grins.

Why did it have to be Charlie, with her over-active imagination and her unhealthy interest in Dean’s sex life? Dean grimaces.

“It’s nothing like that! I was just taking care of him. Kubrick and Creedy attacked Cas!”

“They—where are those fuckers now?” Charlie on the warpath is a fearful thing. Dean’s impressed that Cas managed to gain her loyalty in so short a time.

Wordlessly, he gestures behind him.

“Oh. Well, good riddance!”

“What heresy?” Cas asks.

“You remember when you pwned that captain two days ago? Well, someone filmed it, and grassed on you. Your empire peeps seem very angry, they’re saying you reinterpreted everything. Which is a load of bull if you ask me! They’re the ones reinterpreting their religion, because it clearly says that you get what you deserve, and if you get respect then you deserve it!”

“Heresy’s a criminal offense. They’ll hunt me, and you, because of me,” Cas whispers dejectedly. “I didn’t think—I’m sorry to have brought that down on you.”

“What?! No!” Dean shouts. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I was so happy when you said that, and you absolutely are a person. They can shove their so-called accepted theological dogma up their asses.”

“Anyways, it’s local news right now,” Charlie adds. “So no-one outside ADB’s coverage area should know anything. There’s also a reward for people catching you, but it’s way low, only twenty-five denarii. No-one’ll bother.”

~

“Okay, so this is how it’s gonna go,” Dean explains to Castiel while they walk to the mess hall for breakfast. “Crowley lives in Salamis, in this really pompous house on the edge of town. Planet’s pretty quiet. We don’t have to touch down ten hours away like on Sicilia, so this is a day trip at most. Downsides: No pre-negotiated deal, which is why Sam’s coming. And the coltan’s too heavy to carry anyway, so what we’re gonna do is agree on a price at his house and then lead some of his goons back here. Easy, right? And you just sit tight—catch up on some sleep maybe, or if you need privacy for… something. The room’s yours for the day.”

“I’m coming with you,” Castiel says.

“You’re not,” Dean replies.

Castiel narrows his eyes.

“I’m not joking, dude. This is for your own good. You thought Kubrick and Creedy were bad? Well newsflash, buddy: We’re about to go on a ground mission. An undercover mission. In the empire. Cyprus is full of Kubricks and Creedys, that planet has one of the highest rates of slave ownership per capita outside of the central planets. Hell, Crowley’s got slaves. Unless you’ve got a clever way to disguise your mark and not get noticed—and considering that unpeople disguising their status are executed straight away, that’s still not a risk you should be taking—get ready to get the full bird treatment. Me and Sam are going alone.”

“Unacceptable.”

“Is this about feeling unsafe? Because Jo’s boss for the day, and I know for a fact she’s been twirling her knife in Gordon’s direction every time he’s so much as looked at you.”

“It’s about safety, yes,” Castiel agrees. “Your safety. You are unobservant to the point of blindness. I could have dispatched you many times over without you even standing a shadow of a chance. A momentary discomfort is nothing compared to the threat to your life.”

“ _Momentary discomfort_? Not exactly how I’d classify the complete denial of human rights, but okay, you’re the expert.”

“A blow to my pride is nothing but fleeting discomfort, and nothing else will happen. It’s frowned upon to interfere with another person’s property. As long as I clearly signify that I’m yours, there won’t be a problem,” Castiel argues.

Dean flushes oddly.

“When do we touch down? I need to prepare.”

“Now wait a minute! I’ve been doing this job for my whole life and I didn’t die! Just because you think you’re so clever—”

“I’m coming, Dean,” Castiel cuts him off.

Dean stops arguing, and Castiel didn’t even have to bring up that Dean promised that he’d have full control over his own life, and that Dean therefore wouldn’t be allowed to tell him not to come anyway, which is very gratifying.

~

The Impala lands a brisk hour-long walk away from Crowley’s house, first through a forest and then a suburb. It’s ten in the morning by official time, but because Cyprus revolves faster around its sun than Rome does around its own, it’s also shortly before the first sunset today, and they’re in the middle of rush-hour traffic.

Things are tense.

Dean is tense because he didn’t get his way, and Castiel is accompanying them, clad in the most threadbare pants and coat they own (thinking back on what he’s observed, he possibly should have worn less clothing, but he weighed the need to conceal weapons more highly), strategically dirtied up and wearing a makeshift leather collar with stitched-in writing that proclaims him the property of Kerry Livgren, which is also the name on Dean’s current ID card.

Castiel is tense because he has to keep calculating the trajectories should shots be fired from windows and roofs, and look for escape paths, and because they’re surrounded by people, many of which look at Dean with what might be curiosity and might be attraction and might be distrust. Their eyes only rarely land on Castiel, and if they do they slide away once they have passed from the scar that proclaims him at the mercy of everyone to the collar that makes an injury to his body an attack on another man’s assets. Just as Castiel had predicted. Unfortunately, he has to wait in pointing this out to Dean lest his insubordination draw attention. (Castiel may also be tense because Dean was right, and it feels _wrong_ , to have to bow and submit for people who only a year before would have begged for his protection).

Sam doesn’t seem that tense, actually. He’d remarked that he’d been cooped up on the ship for too long and was looking forward to the trip even though Crowley was a dick. He’s just sad the hike isn’t longer, because he so rarely gets a chance to exercise outside anymore.

~

They’re doing a sad little procession, Dean in front and Cas bringing up the end. Which means that Dean is constantly twitchy—he’d have preferred to keep Cas in his line of sight always, but unfortunately, it’s apparently forbidden for unpeople to block the path of people, and that includes walking in front of them to lead the way. What happens when the unperson is guiding a blind man? Or the unperson is the one with the directions? But no, oppressive customs don’t give a shit about practicability, and Dean has to find pretexts to look back every other minute to make sure nothing’s happened to Castiel.

The rest of the time, he glares at everyone they pass in silent warning.

The house they’re looking for is pompous and douchey-looking according to the photo. Just like the man that dwells in it.

Dean doesn’t know him very well, only that he’s the kind of guy who gets along both with the criminal underground and the local elite. Hence, the asshole palace. Crowley’s properly amoral as far as Dean knows, greasing everyone’s palms no matter what kind of atrocities they partake in, and indulging himself when the mood strikes. Hell, the guy owns people.

There’s a reason why Bela was their go-to woman in the criminal underground, and Dean knows it no matter how much he personally hates her. Bela shares Crowley’s taste for luxury, but she wouldn’t be caught dead in a building like this. Because Bela _hates_. She hates the empire, she hates pirates (Dean now included apparently), she hates everyone but herself but especially those people who have any kind of power over other people—yes, take that Sam and Jo and everyone who think his dislike blinds him. Dean observes Bela, like, all the time! It just doesn’t make him like her any better. Bela probably doesn’t own any slaves because it would be too much work to clean the carpets when they get to know the real her and can’t stop throwing up. She’s the quintessential lone wolf, merely tolerating other people as long as they benefit her and throwing them out like trash the moment they violate her idiosyncratic and opaque moral code, which doesn’t include stealing and killing (as long as it’s people Bela hates, which is everyone. Including her parents.) but makes… things unforgivable. What they are, he isn’t quite sure yet. And may never be, because he’s spared having to think any more about the bitch because he violated one of her rules that she won’t tell anybody about.

So now they’re doing Crowley, and Dean has the sneaking suspicion that if he’d had the choice between the plague that’s thrown them out and the cholera they’re about to let in, he’d go for the plague.

“If Crowley makes a single comment about Cas, we’re leaving,” he hisses to no-one in particular.

And they’re there.

~

Dean’s contact lives in a two-storey mansion at the end of the street. There are disguised floodlights on the roof. Surrounding it is a garden, so large it might as well be a field. No tall plants, to see the enemy coming. A tall steel fence surrounds the property. Too tall to jump easily. And it’s topped with deadly sharp spikes.

Castiel would not recommend entering this house without having scoped it out in detail.

They couldn’t do that because Crowley was very careful about taking pictures of the insides, and it took Charlie the full week it took for the Impala to reach Cyprus to even dig up a blueprint.

Castiel would also prefer being heavily armed, with a laser cannon able to melt the fence if at all possible. But Crowley specified ‘no weapons’, and even the meagre amount of weaponry they’ve taken with them to be safe on the way here, they have to surrender on entry.

“And I will _know_ if you hide anything,” Crowley had said. “No funny business.”

Unpeople are not to be handed weaponry. Dean stressed that Crowley has traditional views on slave ownership. His employees will hardly be any different.

So when Dean and Sam get patted down and have to hand over an impressive seven weapons each, Castiel keeps quiet and his weapons. As long as he stays close, he’ll either be of use without revealing his breach of contract—he could strangle most of the guards bare-handedly, he thinks—or he’ll use the knife in his sleeve and the pistol in his waistband.

There’s just one snag in the plan.

“Where do you think you’re going, pet?” Crowley asks from atop the stairs that Castiel’s in the process of ascending, hot on Dean’s heels.

“Upstairs,” Dean replies, deliberately belligerent.

“Not talking to you, squirrel. Upstairs is business only, and if you’ve brought something to play with it’ll have to wait until after the deal’s agreed on.”

“Dean, no,” Sam hisses and elbows him in the stomach.

Dean doesn’t unclench his hands, but at least he doesn’t walk up and hit Crowley. He wants to, Castiel can tell, just like with the man on the ferry, and he wonders why Dean is always sent to negotiate if he has so little self-control.

“It’s okay, Dean, I’ll wait,” he says.

Every cell in his body tells him not to leave Dean alone with this snake. Dean could be stabbed and Castiel wouldn’t even know about it! But provoking a fight here, on Crowley’s turf, is just as imprudent.

“You sure?” Dean asks. “We can leave right now, if you want.”

Castiel feels warm. “Don’t worry, Dean, _I_ can take care of myself.”

“Fuck you, you bitch,” Dean says good-heartedly. “You got your communicator, right? If anything smells fishy, just call and we’ll be out of there.”

“Why are we avoiding pescetarian dishes?”

“Just take care, okay?” Dean says, and then Castiel is left with the burly guard who directs him to a room in the cellar.

~

The dirty chamber isn’t empty. A woman with matted brown hair is sewing something. She looks vaguely familiar, but the most recent place he could have crossed paths with a slave was—

“I regret to inform you you didn’t manage to kill me, even though you burned down a whole palace to get me,” she snarls at him. “I see you survived our tryst as well. Though maybe a little worse for wear. Welcome to the dirt, _captain_.”

Ruby.

Lilith had owned many slaves, as befitting of her status, and when he’d set the fire he hadn’t thought of how many of them’d be caught right alongside her. No, that isn’t right—he just hadn’t thought it was incredibly _important_.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, and it’s inadequate. “I decided Lilith should die, and I didn’t care about anyone caught in the crossfire. I’m glad you survived.”

“Fuck you. As if you don’t know living’s little better than dying.”

“Still. I don’t even know how many I killed,” Castiel says. “At the trial they said fifty-eight, but that doesn’t include any unpeople. I don’t know how many of your friends I killed.”

“I wouldn’t have expected you to care,” she says and shrugs. “Hot-shot captain like you. And there weren’t any friends.” She softens a little. “That sadist didn’t want us to talk to each other anyway. You know, I’m glad the witch is dead. Pity you didn’t get every single one of them.”

Castiel stares at her, alarmed by her frankness. When he thinks of Ruby back then, he doesn’t remember her talking at all. Just another scarred young face, as eager to get away from him again as he was to leave the palace. (The days when she didn’t want to go were the worst.)

“Surprised I can talk?” she asks, smirking. “Just because I wasn’t about to tell a snooty soldier what I think of his boss doesn’t mean I don’t think about this stuff. And it’s incredibly dull being a washing machine. No-one comes in here, ever. You know, I almost wish I had to hold the knives again, just for some variety? Not to mention the muck they serve us is shit.”

“Come leave with me, Ruby,” Castiel says.

“What?”

“Please. I owe you. I’ll tell Dean to buy you.”

“As if I want to be some dickbag’s bedwarmer. What is it you’re for now, anyway? Bringing a new slave to a business meeting—you here to sweeten the deal? I don’t know what Crowley goes for, but I bet it’s fear.”

“I chose to come here,” Castiel says. “Dean needs protection.”

Ruby laughs. “Jesus Christ, kid, your master started you on the brainwashing early, didn’t he?”

“Dean’s a good man,” Castiel replies surly.

“Pro tip: There are no good men,” Ruby hisses.

“Dean’s good,” Castiel says again. “I’m a pirate now. I’m free. Nothing is written in stone, and if you’re surrounded by good people, then you’re a person, brands be damned. You can choose your own environment. Choose your own destiny. And once you’ve got a gun in your hand, no-one will dare hurt you. Come—”

Ruby clasps a hand over his mouth. “Shit, they’re back,” she whispers.

“Cas?” Dean shouts. “Cas, you okay? Don’t tell me anyone did anything to you or I will burn this motherfucker down!”

“Don’t worry,” Castiel shouts back, and gives Ruby one last meaningful look. “I’m coming.”

She doesn’t follow him.

~

If it were up to Dean, they’d have left the second Crowley pulled his stunt.

Unfortunately, they have a responsibility to the crew, so the only thing he can do is make this bullshit meeting take as little time as possible. They may not get the best deal possible, but it was worth it, Dean thinks when he gets driven back to the Impala in one of Crowley’s open heavy-duty trucks, Cas squished next to him and Sam in the back seat.

Anything to get Cas out of there before something goes wrong.

“Is there a problem?” he asks when the five truck convoy stops, still three miles off from the Impala.

“Just a stowaway,” the driver in the next truck shouts back. He climbs up on the truck bed and pulls a dark-haired bird out from beneath a pile of burlap sacks.

Besides him, Castiel gasps.

“Thought I’d try choosing my own destiny, captain,” the bird woman says before she winks at Cas.

Shit. They know each other. Someone he talked to while Crowley sent him away? What are they gonna do now? Deans hands are bound—he’s surrounded by Crowley’s people, and he can’t just call them off. He has no power here. What's gonna happen to her? And what is that going to do to Cas?

The woman grimaces when the driver twists her hair.

Then he punches her.

“That’ll teach you, you bitch,” he says.

But before he can raise his hand again to the woman’s bleeding face there’s a smoking crater where his head used to be.

Next, Cas picks off the driver in their own car, but by now the others have realized what’s going on, and Dean avoids getting hit by a hair’s breadth only because Castiel pushes him over.

“Get out of the truck,” he whispers. “Get Ruby and run. I’ll hold them off.”

“The fuck you will,” Dean hisses back. “You know what they’ll do to you when you get caught?!”

“I caused this situation, Dean.”

“Don’t be a fucking martyr!”

“Um, guys,” Sam whispers.

Their remaining enemies have left their unprotected vehicles by now, and doubtlessly radioed for help. Thank fuck they’re in the forest already, because Dean doesn’t think they’d stand much of a chance if there were any reinforcements close-by.

They have to get out of here.

“We’ll run,” he decides. “Cas, get rid of your coat, it’s too bright. The trees should cover us. You know in which direction the ship is, right?”

Sam nods.

Cas does, too.

The woman from the truck shakes her head, a kitchen knife in her hand. So she’d sneaked over while they were regrouping—smart. She’s a bit unsteady on her feet, but that might be a concussion from when she got punched.

“Just follow us, okay. Go!”

~

They’re showered with a hail of bullets when they get off the street, as is to be expected. It was stupid, shooting Ruby’s attacker, and even if they make it out alive Castiel will have cost Dean a lot of money, but he just couldn’t not. Ruby implied she only tried to run because of what he said, and after what he’d done to her already, Castiel just couldn’t watch her get beaten to death because he didn’t think before he talked.

Castiel has so much blood on his hands, and it was fine.

It was his choice.

But now he’s realized that he hasn’t just killed on the battlefield, or as tyrannicide: not just evil people. No, Castiel has caused the death of so many more people he didn’t even think about, bystanders and not people and now, almost, someone who listened and was stupid enough to believe in him.

No, Castiel couldn’t let her die.

She’ll get away now, he thinks: Sam is helping her, because she can’t see that well anymore. Her one eye will have swollen shut by now. Dean’s slightly behind them. And Castiel’s bringing up the rear, straining his ears for signs of where their pursuers are, gun in hand.

And then, it happens.

He stumbles.

The gun skids away.

Castiel makes to get up again, but before he manages, a truck driver comes to a halt before him. She grins and raises her gun.

It’s a familiar enough position, down on the ground with a weapon pointed at his heart. He has always managed to come through somehow, before. This time, moreover, he has a life to return to, and friends who might come back to save him when they notice he’s missing.

Unfortunately, this time the weapon he’s facing is a gun.

Castiel meets her eyes and thinks of how to stall.

“My master will want me—”

And gets sprayed with something warm.

“Even stevens, meat-head,” Ruby says and grins. She drops the driver down on the floor, neck slit open. “Now come on, the cavalry waits for no-one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long again—I’m writing another story for BurningTea and ExpatGirl’s [Destiel ghost stories thing](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/GhostOfChristmasDestiel) which posts on Christmas, and I prioritised the deadline! Though I hope the long chapter with the extended quasi-love confession and the promise that the action starts now make up for it.
> 
> Still no makeup! It will happen soon, I promise.
> 
> Love u Ruby. Actually Meg was supposed to show up this chapter, not her, but while writing I decided it made more sense to introduce the disciple before the general.
> 
> Chapter title’s from Pop Will Eat Itself’s Everything’s Cool
> 
> Thank you for reading and kudos and commenting! You're lovely.


	11. Good for the soul and bad for the neck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this bit: Non-graphic description of torture, references to violence, sexist reference.

**id. okt, anno 2761. 02:59:42,004, RST.**

 

It’s been five hours since they made it to the Impala, and Dean’s exhausted beyond belief. He’s probably gotten kinda complacent and lazy in the last few years; piracy may be a hard gig during the actually-fighting-people-for-their-stuff parts, but mostly, there’s plenty of down-time while you’re flying from one place to another. Stay inconspicuous, and even the drop-offs are a piece of pie. Even if there are usually long walks involved, and it’s mostly super boring, and full of contact with unpleasant people. So, not like pie at all. But still—what Dean usually doesn’t have to do is shout to Jo to order an emergency takeoff, and then commandeer the cockpit to make sure they get away from Crowley and his mooks fast enough that there’s no way they’d catch up.

He’s kinda missed piloting his gal, yeah. What with all the captaining he usually has to do, he rarely gets the chance.

But not like this, when he’s just back from a ground mission and his legs are achy from having to run through a frigging forest and he hasn’t eaten—beyond the tiny pretentious tea biscuits Crowley offered—or showered yet. (He’ll have to give Baby’s seats a real thorough clean now, when they’re out of the danger zone. There’s mud on the leather. Mud! Dean has been whispering apologies to the Impala ever since he sat down.)

But not like this: picking a destination at random and hitting the retrofitted hyperdrive button and doing it again and again, doubling back and forward and back and sideways. Eyes trained on the screen, though if something goes wrong there’s nothing to do but wait for the end. If there’s even enough time to notice before they get disintegrated. Here’s hoping that Charlie’s tech wizardry holds firm and they don’t explode on arrival. Or hit something accidentally. Or get stuck somewhere in the hypersurface or whatever. Honestly, when Charlie salvaged the hyperdrive engine a few years ago and stuck it in the Impala, she’d tried to explain how it worked, but he hadn’t even managed to grok all the ways in which everything could go wrong.

So, they don’t use it most of the time. Or at all, really.

What’s the point in getting somewhere a few days faster if all you’re gonna do is blow yourself up?

Plus, it’s not exactly the most fuel conserving method.

Soon, they’ll have to land.

As if Dean hadn’t been busy enough with flying the kind of manoeuvers that would bring tears to Han Solo’s eyes, he’d also grabbed Gordon to be his co-pilot for the desperate escape. Because if there’s a situation it would be utterly stupid to let Gordon hang out in the main deck when he gets the news, the day when Castiel’s ruined a deal with Crowley, possibly on purpose, resulting in them probably losing most of their potential customers in the business world and being hunted, because Cas wanted to pick up one of his old friends, someone he knew from his empire days, one week after Cas killed two of Gordon’s friends (in self-defense, most likely, but that’s not how Gordon views it)—well, if there’s one situation where quarantining the guy’s a good idea, this is it. The problem is—Gordon’s so _reasonable_. You get talking to the guy about crop prices and before you know it you’ve agreed that dropping a nuclear engine on Rome is actually a swell idea.

Luckily, Gordon doesn’t want to disintegrate on a botched re-entry any more than Dean does, so it’s been a quiet five hours.

“Dean? Captain? You have a minute?” Cassie asks from the flight deck door.

Dean definitely doesn’t jerk in surprise, and given that Charlie’s written an amazing subroutine cancelling out unplanned jerks to the steering wheel, no-one notices either.

“Sorry,” Dean says. “Yeah, we’re just out of hyperspace, just resting now for a sec.”

“I know.” She smiles. “I’ve been waiting for ten minutes for you to come out of the zone. I know how you get—I didn’t want to startle you.”

“’s fine. What’s going on, am I being kicked out for the next shift? We’re not far enough away yet—”

“We are,” Gordon interrupts.

“—and anyway, you’re not a pilot. You’re a navigator.”

She grins. “I know.”

“Then what?”

“I’ve come to tell you where we’re going. We need to lay low and recharge for a while. By my calculations, the tanks are three-quarters empty. Luckily it isn’t far from here, you’ve jumped well. And they’ve been bunkering fuel for our emergencies. They’ll hide us, they’re family.”

“Pontus? We can’t go back there, everyone knows it’s our home base. That’s the first place Crowley’s going looking for us.”

“Not your family, Dean,” Cassie replies. “Mine. We’ll go to my wife on Moesia.”

And before she unceremoniously kicks him out of his own cockpit (Dean doesn’t know how he could have expected otherwise. Of course she’d do two tasks for the price of one, she’s incredibly efficient), Cassie deigns to tell him where Cas is: “I haven’t seen him in the mess hall. In your room probably. Where else would he be?”

An implication that Dean resents, for the record, even as he’s incredibly relieved.

“Do me a favor and go right to bed? We’ll be home in approx. seven hours considering Dorothy’s piloting.”

Dean grins. Charlie’s girlfriend is kind of a speed-hound.

“And you don’t want to spend the whole time in bed, right? Lisa would love to see you.”

Dean takes off.

“Go sleep!” Cassie shouts after him.

~

Something clinks when he walks.

Shit, he still has Crowley’s denarii in his pocket. That’s gonna be a hard one to explain—‘Sorry, dude, we didn’t mean to rob you, it’s just that your guys went psycho on us—or rather, our guy went psycho on your guys, but then Crowley’s gonna want Cas’ head on a platter and that’s so not gonna happen—and we had to make an exit real quick, no time to unload the coltan’.

Yeah, not likely.

When they first made an offer to Crowley, he sent them a detailed contract and a video of the last gal to do a runner from him. After he had her caught, he kept her alive for over two weeks. Not that you’d wanna live for two weeks in Crowley’s company anyway, but he stuck her in a tub filled with shit and milk and honey and watched as she was eaten alive by maggots and worms, which—yeah. Just thinking about it is making Dean want to have a thorough shower, or twelve. And Crowley _taped_ it.

So Dean wasn’t gonna take any chances with letting a worse pilot take the wheel before they’re far far away.

If they have to talk to Crowley at all—with Bela throwing a bitch-fit, they might have to, because they have to sell their stuff to someone or they won’t make any profit whatsoever. So, groveling looks pretty likely.

At least it’ll be from a safe distance.

~

Sam isn’t in the room.

Cas is though, as promised. He’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, his knife in his lap. He barely stirs when Dean lets himself in—the room’s been locked even though Dean and Sam never lock it, and the lock squeals—but yeah, he’s out like a light.

He’s still in his slave costume, coat and collar and all. He’s not even cleaned up his muddy face.

Impossibly, it looks like Cas just came straight in here and fell asleep. (Waiting for Dean? Or is that wishful thinking?)

And Dean’s been so worried, whenever he had brain cells to spare from the flight manoeuvers at least, and even sometimes when he didn’t.

Is it safe to approach? Cas is gonna have the mother of all cricks in the neck if he’s sleeping like this. Not to mention the fucking collar doesn’t look very comfortable. Dean had sacrificed their best soft lambskin gloves to the cause as lining because there was no way in hell he’d let Cas bruise his neck with belt leather, but still.

At least he’s there.

He really hadn’t wanted to leave Castiel alone. Without a word as well, just ordering him and his friend inside when they’d finally showed up at the Impala—it was probably just five minutes after Sam and Dean, but he’d been so ready to send out a search and rescue team—and running off to the cockpit.

He’d thought that maybe, Charlie and Jo would take care of him.

Not that Cas has ever been truly helpless in the time Dean’s known him, or depending on protection. (Dean doesn’t think about that time on the tropo. He never wants to think about that time on the tropo again.) But just because he could fight back doesn’t mean he should be forced into a situation where he has to without backup, and come on, the guy’s been out in society for the first time in a year, and the first time since being unmade.

Add getting in a shoot-out and having to run for their lives—well.

Though all things considered Cas is probably gonna deal with that part much better than Dean. The flat look in his eyes when he point-blank executed their driver, as if it didn’t even register that he was about to extinguish someone’s life, as if killing a man was as ordinary as having a burger—was _more_ ordinary: Dean’s watched Cas eat plenty, and he does emote quite a lot when he gets a bite of well-seasoned meat, not to mention he’s still surprised every time he gets a second helping—well, if Dean wasn’t on Cas’ ‘protect at all costs’-list for some reason, he’d be terrified of the guy.

Whatever else you may say of them, the empire’s awesome at creating their emotionless killing machines.

Or not so emotionless.

Reserved, maybe.

Possessing extreme self-control.

Able to shut down all displays of emotion even if he’s just been ordered into a taxi by a strange man who bought him. Up to a point, at least, but knowing what Dean knows now, who could fault Cas his panic attacks? Or maybe his tells are just different form everybody else’s, and Dean will get to learn him, what he looks like when he’s scared.

When there’s no violence to anticipate, he’s completely different, eagerly listening in to Charlie bicker with Dean about Star Trek minutiae and practicing Jo’s knife tricks and teaching her some of his own. (Dean wonders what he was like as a kid.)

It’s just that he’s probably never been taught that there are ways to react that aren’t violence. That you don’t always have to go in for the kill, that if there’s something you want to happen, you could also just—lie. And bargain, and manipulate, and blackmail. Hey, Dean’s never claimed he’s an innocent wilting flower.

Cas’ default reaction has been to escalate when he feels threatened. The knife at Dean’s neck on the tropo. Sam. Kubrick and Creedy. And Dean had left him, potentially alone for hours with an unruly pirate crew, who were going to realize that the deal with Crowley fell through, and with Ruby there, the suspicion was going to fall on Cas.

So finding that Cas has just shut himself in? Kind of the best-case scenario. For everyone involved.

Truly, as much as he wanted to shield Cas from his crew, shielding his crew from Cas was probably the more necessary part. Dean’s spent last week thinking through Kubrick and Creedy’s deaths, and while it’s pretty believable that they might have just attacked Cas, it’s just as likely that Cas decided to take them out preemptively. Or just escalated taunts to a fight to the death. It fits with Cas’ pattern of behavior, at least.

He hasn’t talked to Cas about it, because Cas is going to get scared, even though Dean’s sworn to protect him no matter what and he won’t break his word.

It isn’t like it matters that much anyway. Creedy and Kubrick may have been Dean’s crew for five years now, but they were also pricks. If the Impala’s a family, they were the old bigoted second cousins who everyone was secretly hoping were going to get in a fight with a chainsaw.

So Dean doesn’t care, except that it makes him worry for Cas. One day, Cas is gonna escalate his way into a fight with someone he can’t just dismember. Hell, that’s why he’s in this mess in the first place, isn’t he, that’s why he was a gladiator. You can kill your way out of an argument with one guy, or ten, maybe, if you’re as good as Cas.

Can’t kill yourself out of being an enemy of the state.

He’s going to talk to Cas about it.

As soon as he’s slept.

And had breakfast. Probably for the best, knowing himself. Dean isn’t the most tactful guy when he’s running on no caffeine.

That conversation’s necessary for another reason, come to think of it. Dean really needs a word with Cas about picking up strays. Yeah, unpersonhood’s shit, he gets that, but there are unpeople everywhere. If they start liberating them all every single time they’re doing business, well, their profit rate is going to fucking plummet.

He’s kinda curious about Ruby herself, as well. There hadn’t been a time for introductions, what with the running for their lives, and he really should know what kind of woman he’s invited on his Baby. (He should really know what kind of woman’s important enough to Cas for him to take that kind of risk.)

Dean wishes he could talk to someone about this.

But Charlie’s still stuck on the idea of Dean asking Cas out, and that’s just—no. Cas doesn’t want him that way. Cas isn’t safe if he wants Dean that way. Hell, Cas probably just rescued his girlfriend, and who is Dean to get between them?

Jo’s going to be suspicious. She’s taken to Cas like a duck to water, and any suggestion that Dean might think he’s dangerous—whether that’s what Dean’s saying, or not—is sure to be met with fervent arguments.

Ellen’s going to go all maternal on him.

Anna is—well. She likes Cas, that’s clear by now, and she’s pragmatic enough to take all of Dean’s thoughts seriously and think on them to figure out how to act, and not just blow up at him or act rashly. The trouble’s though, he didn’t have any idea she used to be empire. It’s not that he’s taking Gordon seriously—she obviously hates Michael with the best of them, she isn’t a danger, but the revelation’s shaken something in him nonetheless. He thought they were close. He’d have told her almost anything. Not the Alistair thing, but not even Sammy knows much beyond the bare bones of the story, that Dean was captured and accidentally released. But almost anything else. And she hadn’t trusted him with anything about her life.

Most of his crew is a write-off. Either he doesn’t know them too well—he may be captain and may have hired every one of them, but the Impala’s big enough that you don’t live in each other’s pockets—or they’re just not the kind of people Dean wants to go have serious heart-to-hearts with, or they’re dicks. Or, well, they’re survivalists, and that would probably be enough to not want Cas’ presence wreaking more havoc, no need for them to be assholes.

Victor, maybe? But Victor’s only here because he morally disapproves of the empire, and he’s been on Dean’s case for his supposed trigger-happiness as well. He might be all for protecting an innocent—and now that they know what Lilith was like, hell yeah Cas was an innocent trying to protect other innocents—but it’s best not to make him think there’s other lives at stake.

It would be great if he could count on Sam in this, if he could sound out his thoughts on Cas’ relation to violence with Sam, but no. Sam’s just going to take that as Dean agreeing with him. Sam’s been telling Dean several times that he has suspicions of his own about what Castiel’s doing here, which, come on. Sam of all people, listening to Gordon?! About Castiel having some kind of perfidious hidden plan? He may be smart, but has Sam even met the guy? Cas is way too sincere and nice for that. He keeps trying to protect Dean, after all, even though Dean’s given him ample reason to hate him, and the power to do some real harm. Sam just doesn’t know Cas yet, the way Dean knows him.

Dean looks over to Cas, who still hasn’t shifted at all. Quiet sleeper.

He really doesn’t want to wake him up, but he can’t in good conscience let him stay like this. What if Cas strangles himself in his sleep somehow? What if he develops back problems? What if he startles and cuts himself?

As long as it’s just Dean, it might be okay—he’s careful, he won’t disturb Cas.

But what if Sam comes trampling in?

What if Charlie dreams up a new program and has to tell him immediately, loudly and boisterously?

What—oh, that’s a good idea. Cas doesn’t startle at Dean, but he does when it’s completely quiet and someone’s moving, so on the few rare days when Cas doesn’t just decide to shadow Dean to breakfast, Dean’s taken to quietly talking—to Sam, mostly—so Cas knows it’s okay to stay asleep.

“Hey, Cas,” he whispers.

So far, so good. Castiel’s still fast asleep.

“I’m going to come closer now.” (If anyone asks, Dean’s been sitting down, not standing in the doorway staring at Cas for half an hour.) “Still just me, just stay down, I’m going to touch your neck now.” And then, because it’s getting boring just narrating what he’s doing, “Cas, do you think Sam would see reason if I made him spend more time with you? He just doesn’t know you, right? That’s why he’s being weird.”

The buckle’s easy, quick-release.

“That’s everyone’s problem, maybe? Like, I’ve been so focused on you having good friends, and Jo and Charlie are the best, right?”

He drops the collar on the bed.

“So you’d be safe from me.”

Cas shifts, finally, but only to drop his head to Dean’s shoulder. He’s still snoring softly.

“But that’s not living. We’re all a team, and—hey, no, I’m not a pillow, let’s get your head down there, yeah, good, Cas—you shouldn’t just be safe. You should have more.”

He pushes Cas' legs down flat, carefully.

“So, fun team activities."

He gropes around for a blanket. Cas is laying on his own, but Dean’s go one as well, and he’s not gonna miss it. Too dearly. He doesn’t need a blanket. It’s kinda warm, anyway.

"Hey Cas, what do you think about movie nights?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! The end of the year's always super busy, and that's kinda torn me out of the writing mindset. At least I've already started on the next one because it used to be tangled up with this one here?
> 
> Also, I've been figuring out Roman dates and am going to edit them in, though they're mostly for keeping track of how much time's passed (I generally add somewhere in the text long it's been since the last scene that wasn't on the same day, but it's easier this way). RST's Roman Standard Time, basically what day and hour it would be on the capital.
> 
> Chapter title's from Bulletproof by Stiff Little Fingers.
> 
> Thank you all for reading and everything!


	12. Some people get by with a little understanding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for this bit: Very high on the introspection (including references to a lot of events from the last chapters), outsider pov on what is essentially a colonized planet from someone who used to do imperial policing (i.e. uncharitable misrepresentation of the people's character etc, even if it's not malicious), recounting of violence and sexual harassment (past), dehumanization mentioned.

_(I want more!)_

**Time** **: prid.  id.  okt, anno 2761. 10:35:42,094 RST.**  
**Location** **:** **planet** **Moesia Inferior, westernmost enclave of AABX-7903 quadrant.**

 

The Impala touches down next to the river, sending great waves into the wheat fields and spraying the lone cow that hasn’t fled the noise yet with droplets and uprooted reeds. As far as landing spots go, this one is even more exposed than the pirates’ last choices, in full view of Crunoi, the village they’re aiming for—where their navigator Cassie’s from and also apparently the home of a woman called Lisa, whom Dean spoke of with intense fondness.

It’s late afternoon, local time.

Already, a young dark-haired boy has spotted them and is running into the village. To fetch his parents, if their luck holds true, and not to inform regional imperial command as is the law.

Knowing Moesia, there is no reason to worry. The locals are as unappreciative of Roman civilization as they are obstinate, which is after all why the planet’s still gridded with security zones and walls and checkpoints and with the surveillance satellites they’ve had to dodge in their approach, four centuries after Moesia Inferior entered the Empire’s protective fold. How Dean kept up his contact with Lisa for years in spite of the sophisticated population control measures, Castiel doesn’t know, but now, none of them pose a significant challenge. The randomized paths of the machines are utterly predictable, the spying towers that stud the surface have myriad blind spots. Impossible to circumnavigate for a commoner, maybe—but no-one entertained the notion of a soldier turning traitor (and, Castiel has to admit in the corners of his mind, a traitor he most certainly is now, sharing intelligence with pirates), and there are no contingency plans for someone of Castiel’s former station infiltrating the planet.

And Castiel is very familiar with Moesia II. It’s where he used to be stationed for two years in his early twenties, and he has nothing but fond memories of the planet and of his comrades from back then. A beautiful and populous planet of farmers and iron mines and defiance.

Policing it was not an easy job—there’s a sizeable criminal population, just like on any peripheral planet, which is after all why Dean’s decided to come here now. Not as unruly as the likes of Pontus, which hasn’t seen a legitimate ruler for centuries and has long been given up as a lost cause and ceded to the pirates in practice if not in name, but Moesia is still essentially a rat’s nest. Back then, they’d searched and spied and interrogated, they’d ingratiated themselves with the local population. They’d helped build infrastructure, they’d built roads and schools and encouraged every bright child to enter the military, and they still hadn’t managed to find a single gang leader. It’s a close-knit community, suspicious of anyone who’s not Moesian.

Dean believes that they have to lay low for a while until Crowley has calmed down, and if Dean thinks so, then it’s going to be the best course of action.

If they have to hide, they couldn’t do better: It’s Cassie’s home planet after all, and so her family will hide them.

Crowley may have money on his side. He may have more guns. He may have a massive criminal network. He may have an army of terrified goons, and the tacit support of the more corrupt members of imperial administration.

But he will never be Moesian, will never be related to anyone, and here, family is everything: All of Crowley’s money won’t matter in the face of simple xenophobia.

~

For all his time living on Moesia, he’s never experienced the people like this: Crunoi’s village hall is packed with pirates and locals, hugging and gossiping and intermingling, not a hostile face in sight.

The food that’s being served is much better, too.

The conversation has turned to recent happenings on Bithynia, where seven people have been killed in a craven bomb attack on a market hall. Apparently, it has been the main story on Acta Diurna Dacia-Moesia for two days now, has been the main story on every news program accessible here.

“ADDM has been completely ignoring the cholera crisis around Utus river”, a woman is complaining. “Even though the sickness has not been conquered for half a year now—a scandal, considering all the resources at their disposal! Aren’t we part of the empire? Thousands have died. Thousands!”

“But think of the Bithynians! It must be horrible, just going to the market—a normal shopping day, and boom, suddenly you’re dead,” a man is replying. “How could anyone do that?”

Castiel is not familiar with this specific tragedy or the other nine point seven attacks that, statistically, should have happened in the year since he committed the coup, so it’s not a topic he has anything much to contribute to.

He could say that he has been near Bithynia two weeks before it happened.

He could say that these attacks happen periodically, that in such a large empire, there are always those who feel short-changed, and some of them would always bring their anger to bear on the innocent population, although every single death is still a tragedy.

He could say that he has, in his former life, tried to prevent those attacks, and that the very road blocks and surveillance satellites that everyone is complaining about are tools to prevent those assassinations of citizens. That the same is true about the curfew and the dead-of-night arrests and the sons and daughters being carted off to intelligence centers and prisons.

He could say those things, but Castiel knows when his knowledge is unlikely to be well-received.

Instead, he’s procured a sweet nutty pastry to occasionally bite into so he doesn’t look out of place. He’s keeping to the wall for the same reason. He’s occasionally looking at the rest of Dean’s crew, mingling with the villagers at the party, meeting up with old friends.

He’s keeping tight control of his thoughts, but still—Castiel can’t help feeling abandoned.

When they arrived at the village hall, Dean was right beside him, even occasionally pulling him along as he introduced Castiel to everyone in town. Making sure they didn’t get separated, because Castiel’s mark is visible and he’s new and, as Dean said, “You never knows who’s been assimilated, and I won’t have anyone thinking it’s okay to hurt you.”

But by now he’s been shown off to everyone, has been praised for outwitting the local planetary monitoring and planning the robbery near Bithynia twenty times over, and there hadn’t been any outward trouble. (Castiel has noticed two men starting at Dean’s declaration that he doesn’t believe in slavery, and a woman gestured to the slave behind her to run home, but he has been watching them and they don’t appear to pose any acute danger it would be necessary to notify Dean of.)

Last had been the boy who’d alerted the village, clad in a small leather jacket and grinning widely as he threw himself into Dean’s arms.

“Ben!” Dean had exclaimed, letting go of Castiel’s forearm without a second thought. “You’ve grown, the last time I was here you like yea high!” He had lowered the palm of his hand to the general vicinity of his kneecap, which had prompted the boy to vigorously protest.

“I was only three inches shorter, uncle Dean,” the boy had shouted. “It was last year!”

And then, a brunette woman had come up to Dean and embraced him.

Castiel had considered getting between her and Dean when he noticed her approaching (a thought that had crossed his mind every single time someone had come close) but considering Dean could see her as well—a few seconds after Castiel—and didn’t seem alarmed, Castiel had discarded the precaution again.

Now, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

They seemed very close.

Dean had introduced the woman—“Lisa, Ben’s mom. Lisa, this is Castiel, _scourge of Sicilia_ and total nerd.”

Lisa had been very friendly to Castiel, chatting to him for several minutes, but it had been obvious who she’d really come over to see.

And then, it had happened.

Watching Dean lead Lisa away, one arm around her shoulders, the other hand holding Ben’s while they chatted about one of Ben’s school projects—it hadn’t taken long to identify the emotion.

Jealousy.

Lisa had effortlessly taken over Castiel’s place in Dean’s attention.

Until he’d watched Dean’s eyes light up when he noticed Lisa, he hadn’t realized how much he’d treasured his interactions with Dean. How much he’d relished knowing that often, he was the last person Dean sought out to wish a good night to. Castiel had started taking for granted that his place was by Dean’s side. That Dean’s focus would be on him, if it wasn’t on Sam (his brother) or Charlie and Jo (his adopted sisters) or, occasionally, others like Anna or Victor (his friends). Who Castiel apparently hadn’t considered competitors for Dean’s attention.

Competitors.

He certainly hadn’t considered it a competition when his friends Uriel and Balthazar had talked to each other instead of him. (Not that that happened often, Uriel had always been too zealous for Balthazar’s liking).

Had he been wishing for something beyond mere camaraderie with Dean, all this time?

Thinking back on his time with Dean, that explanation makes sense, actually. In the beginning, on that first day in the arena and then in the taxi and on the ferry, obviously, he’d been terrified of Dean and of the power Dean had over him. But the more Dean revealed himself—the more they talked, the more Dean was in turns innocent and horrified of the situation he’d placed Castiel in, the measures Dean had taken to make Castiel feel more secure…

It had been convenient for Castiel, getting closer to Dean. A good plan. Here was a man who wouldn’t take liberties with Castiel or his body. Who would shield Castiel.

Obviously he wanted to be close to Dean.

And when Dean had helped him shave—it had been just the second day they knew each other. He’d felt safe. Able to let go. Mostly it may have been the exhaustion, and the knowledge that Castiel had lost the ability to control his fate anyway, but somehow, he’d also started to trust Dean.

Then, Dean had ignored him for weeks. Castiel had been hurt—it makes sense to interpret his emotional reactions to Dean’s behavior that way. Dean’s focus had shifted back on the crew. An impediment to Castiel’s plan to make himself indispensable? Certainly. But logically, Castiel should have kept approaching him, not—retreated and… sulked. Spending time with Jo, Charlie and Anna had been good, but they didn’t hold the most power on the Impala.

Why had he withdrawn, if not because of feelings?

It had been a relief, when Dean had sought him out after the attack on Kubrick and Creedy. When Dean had cradled his head in his hands, and with complete conviction promised to choose Castiel, always. And then opened his room to him.

Still, that much is also explainable by reference to Castiel’s self-interest. It was proof that Castiel’s plan had worked.

Does it have to mean that Castiel desires other intimacies with Dean?

An attraction to Dean wouldn’t serve Castiel’s self-interest. Relationships always harbor the possibility of failure, and angering the one person who protects him above all others would be unwise. However, if the risk of breakdown could be minimized, a liaison with Dean would provide added security, a major benefit. Irrespective of Castiel’s possible attachment to Dean.

But does he want Dean?

And more importantly, does any of it even matter, when Dean doesn’t reciprocate?

Disturbed by the direction of his thoughts, Castiel decides that he has been idle long enough.

There hadn’t been any orders except for the decidedly unhelpful “Go have fun!” because this is meant to be a holiday, but if Castiel cannot advance Dean’s interests at the moment and does not want to further ponder his futile infatuation, then he should return to his own plans.

Survival.

The absence of anyone who means him—and Ruby, now—harm.

To be achieved by generating good-will amongst those in Dean’s inner circle, and the death of anyone who will not be swayed.

He considers approaching any of the villagers, but there is little point. This is just a sanctuary. Crowley may still be out there, but he will always be, and if they mean to make money they’ll have to leave sooner rather than later. They’ll remain on Moesia for at most fourteen days, Castiel estimates. Already, they are refueling and stocking up on victuals, and Charlie and Jo have stayed on the Impala for maintenance.

Unless the villagers pose a direct threat, they can be disregarded, and they don’t. If nothing else, Dean’s way of introducing Castiel has proven who he cares about more. Except for Lisa, who—but Castiel is not interested in talking to Lisa. There is no reason to be talking to Lisa, and anyway, Dean is probably still with her. They feel affection for each other, they might be k—anyway, if Castiel interrogates her in front of him, then Dean may find out about Castiel’s plan. Dean could guess what Castiel did to members of his crew.

Dean has promised to protect Castiel, has promised his protection is unconditional (Castiel cradles this memory inside his chest, the most precious of moments), but Castiel is not particularly looking forward to testing the limits of Dean’s devotion.

Especially while Dean is in the arms of his lover…

There is no reason for thinking there is any rivalry between Dean’s regard for Lisa and his promise to Castiel. They are completely different things. Lisa, Dean has chosen for a relationship, and Castiel is just part of Dean’s crew. Dean cares for his crew. If any of them were in Castiel’s position, Dean would probably have given them the same promise. Yes. They are different. Even if sometimes Dean looks at him with such tenderness, and Castiel wishes…

Castiel shuts off the thought. This line of thinking is unproductive.

The villagers are irrelevant, but he should observe his crew a little more.                   

He may know where everybody stands, and most of them have been friendly from the beginning or have been shown why they should appreciate him, and there haven’t been any overt challenges after the elimination of Kubrick and Creedy. But that is no reason to neglect being social.          

Luckily, it’s not hard to locate most of them.

At the largest table in the room, Ruby’s holding court. She’s sat at the head, flanked by Anna and Sam, and most of the others are there as well, hanging on to her every word.

 “—and there I was, without a gun and in this stupid dress getting felt up by a creep, because the guys I’d hired on with were stupid idiots who thought sending the best fighter in as bait made some kind of sense,” she says, grinning.

This must be a tale from before she was unmade.

Castiel sits down between Anna and Kevin, careful not to interrupt her story. He’s curious, and before, she’d never have told him any of it.

“Only, they’d forgot the bodyguards,” Ruby continues. “Ten of them, because that High Judge was fucking loaded. Teaches you never to do a job with rookies. So John and the guys burst in when I gave the signal. Didn’t stand a chance. My guys, I mean. But what can you do, they promised they’d do anything to protect a vulnerable lady like me.” She draws her shoulders in to seem smaller and makes her lips tremble and her eyes huge and scared, and then picks up another fry. “These are so good! Anyway, they’d all been suckered by the act, and that sweaty hand on my thigh had been there long enough. So, they got picked off one by one, though Nate did put up an impressive fight. But when the Judge turned back to his piece of tail, there was nothing there anymore, and neither was his wallet or the key to his safe.”

“She used to be a robber on Aquitania,” Anna whispers to Castiel.

He’s unsure what to make of this information. On the one hand—Ruby hurt people. She is exactly the kind of person proscription was made for. And Castiel freed her, set her among her people—no wonder she fits in so well here, a planet-bound pirate among her starfaring equals. She is more alike Dean than Castiel will ever be. Castiel tamps down the jealousy—he doesn’t even want to be a criminal. It’s not him that’s wrong. But with everything that’s happened today, with Lisa, it’s surprisingly hard.

(Dean is a criminal. By the law, he should be unmade. For a fraction of a second, Castiel pictures him, held down while the iron lowers upon his face. He has to concentrate to keep the pastry down, after that.)

“Never went back there. I wonder what happened to the fucker, can’t have been easy explaining to Raphael that he lost 5k because he couldn’t keep it in his pants.”

But can Castiel truly judge Ruby? He is no less a murderer than she. He had good reasons for killing Lilith, better than the low lure of profits. He was trying to do _right_. But he still killed, and in a court of law his reasoning would be no better received (was no better received) than hers. Just because the criminal feels no remorse doesn’t mean they shouldn’t be punished.

“When I got dragged before the Aquitanian court a year later, the judge was a different guy, so I’m guessing he didn’t get off, the slimeball.”

But just because they were wrong doesn’t make the punishment right. Why should Zachariah and Ruby’s ‘slimeball’ be allowed to condemn them? When their crimes are no lesser. Castiel has probably killed more than a hundred people in his attack on Lilith’s palace. But Zachariah has been aiding and abetting Lilith’s reign of terror for years, and she’s murdered ten times that, even if legally, she was allowed to.

Why should it be _their_ right to sentence anyone to unpersonhood and slavery?

Why should—why should it be anyone’s?

Castiel grew up knowing that there are some crimes that are unforgivable. That if you murder another person, if you prey on the defenseless, your reveal that you are undeserving of even standing among the animals. Thus, you are cast out. You are marked, and forever at the mercy of anyone you will meet.

You’re defenseless.

The heat of the branding iron is forever seared in his flesh and mind, the moment he had the bone-chilling realization that from now on, he wouldn’t be able to escape rape and torture and murder anymore.

Before, it would have been a crime, would have netted his attacker the very fate he suffers now.

After, all of it, the most despicable acts that could ever be done to another person—after he was branded, if someone did that to him, they’d be _lauded_.

Why should proscription—why should _the right to turn morality so utterly on its head_ —why should it _exist_?  

~

Something is missing from the background noise.

The soothing timbre of Dean’s voice has disappeared. Castiel must have been too lost in thought to notice. Before he had his—revelation, it had been there, over in the corner, then over by the buffet, intermingled with Lisa’s.

By habit, Castiel had occasionally looked around for a glance of brown leather jacket, and he’d always been able to pinpoint it sooner rather than later, but now—nothing.

Maybe he has left with Lisa? A quick check confirms she’s missing as well, and the middle of a crowded village hall probably isn’t the ideal place for an emotional reunion with one’s beloved.

If he has, Castiel shouldn’t interrupt. If nothing else, he has no particular desire to see Dean being intimate with anyone. But does that mean he should stay away entirely, or could he just locate Dean and then stay—unobtrusively—as close as possible?

After all, they’re still planetside and exposed, and anything could happen.

Dean may trust Lisa and Cassie’s family completely, and Castiel’s experience corroborates the view that they won’t be betrayed to Crowley or the empire here, but that doesn’t protect Dean from accidents. Personal grudges. And Dean is much too trusting. Crunoi has welcomed them with open arms, but Castiel should not forget that are also in the habit of colluding with pirates—case in point, _they_ are welcome here—and criminals are violent and frequently unpredictable.

No matter Castiel’s discomfort at potentially seeing a man whose company he enjoys with another, Dean’s safety comes first.

But where would anyone go here for a secluded, private spot, with romantic potential? Where would they go that they feel safe? Castiel assumes that there are places for such purposes in every town, and Dean must know them.

He fishes the communicator out of his coat pocket to procure a map before he realizes that the village is possibly to remote to draw a commercial cartographer’s interest, and he can’t access the military’s information service anymore. But maybe, there’s no need for that anyway. He’s been ignoring the only known factor in his reasoning.

Where would _Dean_ go?

Castiel stalks off to the Impala.

~

There is no sign of Lisa anywhere on the ship, and Castiel spares a moment to be thankful once he finds Dean, before castigating himself—it isn’t his business whose contact Dean keeps, and anyway, is doesn’t mean anything. Absence of evidence isn’t evidence of absence. Just because they aren’t together now, doesn’t mean they weren’t earlier, or that they wouldn’t have been if Dean hadn’t been called away.

Called away, apparently, to parlay with their elusive receiver of stolen goods.

A few of the Impala crew, including Dean, are crowded around a computer on the main deck, so focused on the woman on the screen that they don’t react at all when Castiel reaches the doorway.

The woman’s identity is easy to ascertain, thanks to the caller information at the bottom of the screen. (An ID not yet in their contact list, he notes absently, because Charlie had told him once that the Impala’s computer automatically replaces known ideas with everything they have on the contact, and Castiel doubts that Dean’s ship would be so civil as to refer to someone Dean usually calls ‘the parents-murdering snake’ as simply ‘Bela T’.)

Bela doesn’t quite have the air of a successful businessman as Crowley’d had, and when she smiles, her sharkish expression is brittle and hard.

Though Castiel should probably have expected that. While he’s heard of Crowley—everyone with a passing level of interest in organized crime does, or at least everyone involved in fighting it and successful enough to have to know which crime lords have bribed the local governors and Roman central administration and are out of reach of imperial justice.

This Bela Talbot, though, has never shown up on his radar.

Either Dean’s strapped enough to have to work with amateurs—Castiel might feel guilty, considering it’s his rash actions that led to their fight with Crowley, but then he thinks of the way Ruby threw her head back in laughter before whispering something back in Anna’s ear, with a lightness he wouldn’t have thought the quiet woman in Lilith’s possession capable of, and no, he doesn’t—or Bela’s goals are parsecs from the simple accumulation of wealth which, after all, doesn’t require much secrecy in a world where the likes of Lilith and Zachariah will turn a blind eye as soon as they’ve been compensated.

All the more reason for careful study, then.

The vid screen shows a woman probably a few years Castiel’s junior, most likely average height, expensive but nondescript coat, carefully coiffed brown hair, subtle makeup—truly rich, then, as face-paint is heavily regulated to prevent unpeople from trying to hide. Crisp Britannian accent.

Habitually, Castiel’s eyes focus on the left side of the face, where the lines between people and vermin are dawn.

The skin’s slightly irregular below the paint, mottled and ridged.

Surely she wouldn’t dare—she could hardly be so naïve to believe that a few dabs of pigment would conceal the mark from anyone but the most uncultured of people.

But no, the marks don’t fit the unperson’s cross exactly, splashes instead of clear lines of tissue, and on inspection Castiel can see that it’s slightly larger than it should be, too. The scar extends up to her brow, and her left eye’s been hurt as well, and replaced. Replaced by—

Castiel blinks in surprise.

There are flecks of gold in the green of her left eye.

The vid cam’s quality isn’t good enough to tell for certain, but Castiel’s read through a lot of Second Eye specs after shrapnel tore out Ezekiel’s eye six years ago when the people of Numidia refused the empire’s mercy, and he’s seen those lines in the iris before. It’s a Shahr-I Shokhta model, year 2720 at most, when they rebranded and got rid of the subtle sun ray markings. Hardly the most modern one on implantation, even if she received it as a kid. And even back then, mid-market at best.

At odds with her carefully cultivated air of wealth and class.

Curious.

Castiel files it away for later contemplation and steps into the room.

Inside, Jo, Charlie and Sam are in the process of tense negotiations with Bela—

“She wants us to rob some shipyard on Tripolitania, for a huge wad of cash, sounds like a good deal even though it’s not breaking and entering which we would usually do but she wants us to go in guns blazing, says she’ll provide some externals for backup. But Dean’s pissed because she called him a rapist, but that’s just a misunderstanding—Dean wouldn’t, but Bela wouldn’t just throw that word around. I mean she’s not so stupid to imagine she’s immune, and the things you hear about what happens to women outlaws… Bela was just like, ‘It was a logical assumption to make, Winchester’, glare and all. Didn’t even want to talk about it, I think she’s embarrassed. Anyway, Dean thinks the assignment’s a trap”, Charlie helpfully fills Castiel in—

and there Dean is, off in the corner next to Ruby, glaring at the screen as if he could explode Bela by sheer force of will. (Castiel thinks back on when he’s seen Dean in sales negotiations, how everyone just expected him to be contrary and ignored him and imagines Dean being told to go to the quiet corner while the adults talk. Over in the corner, Dean opens his mouth, and gets promptly shushed by Sam. Castiel smiles.)

“—when you arrive on Tripolitania, go to the bar The Cleaner’s,” Bela says. “My associate will meet you there.”

“Your associate?” Dean asks.

(“I have literally never seen Bela in the company of another person that wasn’t a waiter in a restaurant,” Dean had told him once.)

“Yes, my associate, Winchester,” Bela replies coolly.

“Your… associate…”

When Bela doesn’t react except to glower, Dean elaborates.

“Does this associate have a name?” he asks. “What do they look like? How are we going to find them, we can hardly go in and approach every single person who looks douchey enough to stoop to working with you.”

“They will find you.”

“Wow, that is some secret agent bullshit. How are we going to tell they’re not a plant? Are we going to ask everyone for the time until we’ve found someone whose watch has stopped at 11:46 and says it’s because of the heat or what?”

“No. It shall suffice for you to know that they are meeting you in that bar. You will be compensated after the mission. I will contact you regarding a drop-off point for the money later. Do you have any _useful_ questions?”

No-one speaks.

(Castiel does have some, like why rob Tripolitania’s shipyard, producers of the Grace mark 10 prototypes that will cement the empire’s military superiority as soon as the last functionality tests are done? A shipyard that is surely guarded well? Why rob a shipyard at all, when pirates’ activity is generally consigned to preying on shippers of consumer goods or raw materials? Why hire Dean’s tiny crew staying 7.5 parsecs from the target planet when she’s already found people who won’t first have to fly there for two weeks?

What is he missing about her scarred face?)

Bela smiles, satisfied. “Always a pleasure doing business with you,” she says.

“Can’t say the same,” Dean replies, and gets elbowed by Jo. “You’d better have our money ready. Bye.”

Instead of shutting off the vidcom, though, Bela turns to study Castiel. For a few seconds, she just looks at him, so intently that he’s reminded of Anna when she still was his superior, inspecting her troops. Castiel doesn’t know what she’s looking for, but she must have found it. An expression that he can’t parse passes over her face, and then she smiles.

“Captain Castiel, it’s an honour,” she says. “Bela Talbot, at your service.”

Despite the fact that he has no right to it anymore—that it’s written plainly on his face that he never again will be a captain, and Bela should know—Castiel feels a rush of pleased warmth at hearing his old title, even if it is from a criminal. It might have been mockery, but it doesn’t feel that way. Bela feels sincere.

Dean’s frown tells Castiel he doesn’t know what to make of it either.

There’s no reason why a minor smuggler should have heard of him, let alone why she’d look at him in… in admiration.

The first question, at least, is cleared up fast.

“As a former resident of Sicilia, thank you for your service to the nation,” Bela continues. “I couldn’t believe my ears when I heard Dean had added you to his roster, but it seems you’ve settled in admirably. I was just on Bithynia for work—you’ve made quite a splash with your declaration.” She smirks. “Eight whole days and the main hall of the slave market turned to rubble, before the rioters were subdued.

“I am looking forward to our fruitful future collaboration,” she says, and shuts off the camera.

For the first few seconds, there’s silence. Then—

“Wow,” Dean says. “Did anyone else get the slightly encoded secret message vibe? Even for Bela, that was some cryptic bullshit.”

“No, but, Dean,” Charlie interjects. “It’s all kinda starting to makes sense now. Like, she obviously knew that you’d bought Castiel. She wasn’t the least bit surprised to see him.”

“And that—”

“The rapist comment! I’ve been wondering for weeks now, why you didn’t just tell Cas when you’re obviously—”

“Charlie!” Dean chastises.

There’s something Dean doesn’t want him to know. Castiel forces down his instinctual indignation. No, Dean doesn’t need to tell him everything, he can just tell Charlie things that he doesn’t want to discuss with Castiel. Even if it pertains to Castiel in some way. Even if Castiel is only trying to protect him. It is totally fine. Dean has a right to keep his secrets. (Castiel can always investigate later.)

“—Sorry, sorry, I know you don’t want me to—even though I still can’t understand why you don’t—”

“Stay on track, Charles,” Jo insists. “Bela called us all rapists. And she did that why?”

“Right. So Bela found out that Dean bought Cas…”

And, just like Castiel, she came to the conclusion that there could only be one reason why.

Dean, apparently, is also reliving their altercation on the troposphere ferry on Sicilia. He looks faintly green as he clears his throat and says, “And she thought that I’d—that—”

“Makes sense,” Ruby adds. “And even if you didn’t, if you’re the nought point nought whatever percent that wouldn’t. Or just not into men. We all know that slavers are no better than rapists.”

“I’m with you so far, guys,” Sam says. “But that doesn’t explain why she re-established contact, I mean nothing really changed. Didn’t it—Bithynia!”

“Yeah,” Charlie says.

“So she watches Castiel proclaim he’s a person in a news clip on ADB and we’re back to being bros again?” Jo asks. “Bela’s not exactly known for being a trusting person.”

“Well, there’s other things. Crowley’s put out a hit on us for freeing Ruby—and it explicitly says ‘freeing’, but basically, yes,” Charlie says.

Dean laughs. “Who’d’a thought! Our Bela, the freedom fighter!”

“Not as impossible as you think,” Jo huffs. “She’s not evil—”

“Easy for you to say, you don’t have to meet up with her and listen to comments about how you should go back to the guy who tortured you—”

“—that’s always been the point. Yes, she works with criminals, but there’s a lot of things Bela will never do and will never hire anyone to do. Or hire anyone who does it. Like selling ships’ crews as slaves.”

“But she’s not above taking out a major military factory, apparently,” says Dean. “So, we still gonna do it?”

“Uh, yeah? Nothing’s really changed, except we now like Bela better,” Sam replies. “But you’re right, we should call for a crew vote anyway.”

Dean looks at the clock and shakes his head. “Tomorrow,” he says. “This thing’ll keep for a little while. When Cassie came in today and ordered me to set course for Moesia, she was so happy to see her wife again. Let her and Lisa have some fun, at least for a night.”

It may seem inconsequential compared to the fact that they are about to directly attack the empire in a few days, but still, Castiel can’t help but refocus completely on that information. He quickly reviews the day in his head. Lisa and _Cassie_? It fits. They’d embraced very early on. At the time, Castiel had dismissed it as irrelevant compared to working out whether any of the villagers carried weapons, and calculating the fastest way he could carry Dean back to the Impala if it became necessary.

“You know what—I’m wiped. Cas, you comin’?”

Castiel commands his galloping heart to stop and follows him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I'm so sorry for taking so long! When I decided to take a break back in Jan/Feb to study for my statistics exams, I really didn't think this would happen. But then I had to write an uncooperative term paper, and then I got a new student job and did some other odd jobs, and then the beginning of the semester was so busy... You get the gist (I even managed to fit a brief period of being too depressed to do anything much in, wow productive). Anyway, thanks for sticking with the story! I won't be able to update as often as in the beginning of this story because I'm still pretty stressed, but at least I have my weekends back now (no more blockseminars, yay)
> 
> As an apology present, this chapter is literally more than twice as long as the first two combined so it is basically a double update, yeah? (You might say that I could’ve just written the first half then, but a) I was done with the second half way before the first and b) the talk with Bela is a ~key plot event~ and if I pushed it back yet again then nothing will ever happen.)
> 
> I really love pining as a trope So Much but when I was writing I was like, is this too contrived, isn’t it really easy to find out if Cas just talks to someone? Do I want to make him not investigate for ~drama~? And I need them together anyway for ~later events~
> 
> The earliest known evidence of an eye prosthesis (dating back to almost 5000 years ago!) was found in Shahr-I Shokhta (Iran) which is not in the Space Roman Empire but hey, who cares. Still super cool.
> 
> Title and subtitle from More by the Sisters of Mercy.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, also @ the people who asked me if I’m abandoning this! No, I couldn’t even if I wanted to, I’m way too excited about writing what I’ve planned for Chapter 25. The dangers of obsessively planning ahead


	13. One more lie-in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Short reference to past torture. Pejorative use of idiot and insane. A lot of fretting. Poor Dean, nothing's going his way.

_(all I want is…)_

**Time** **: prid.  id.  okt, anno 2761. 23:01:44,001 RST.**  
**Location** **:** **Moesia Inferior, main corridor on the second floor of the ship parked in the fields outside Crunoi village.**

 

Originally, Dean had suggested that he and Cas—there’s no way Sam would ever skip his evening workout for nothing—that they should both go back fast to their room mainly so they’ll be well-rested for the headache that’s sure to come tomorrow. The planning they’ll have to do, and the sneaking off Moesia that’s still fucking dangerous, even if Cas’ knowledge has helped a lot. There had been no other motivations, and Dean certainly hadn’t noticed the way Cas had stuck to him for the entire morning, much less enjoyed it. What do you take him for, people? _Slavers or rapists, same difference_ , he remembers Ruby saying, and sighs.

He looks at Cas and finds him staring. Of course. Dean sighs again and makes himself look away.

The headache’s a valid concern, anyway. It’s already starting up.

Working with Bela.

Again.

Working with the amoral snake that everyone but him loves, that they love even more apparently now that she’s hired them for a nigh-suicidal terrorist attack against the state, because what else does Bela want? What is she gonna do with the Grace ships they’ve been hired to steal, sell them? As if there’s even a single potential buyer. As if there’s even one single person stupid enough to say, “Come Mikey and shoot me with your billions of ships in your entirely predictable fit of rage over your prestige project!” The empire’s been pouring serious cash into the development of those ships for decades. They’re not going to be content just losing them.

Do his crew even know what they’ll be risking? They want to stick it to the man? Well, the man’s going to stick it right back, stick it under their nailbeds and in the soles of their feet and, if they’re lucky, he’s not going to stick it into their eyes just yet. Point is, Dean has five weeks more experience with a maniac sticking things in him than he thinks is strictly necessary. And he doesn’t particularly want his baby brother, or his adopted baby sisters, or his aunt, or his antagonistic bloodthirsty inherited buddy or whatever Gordon is to find out just what Dean has point-blank refused to tell anybody about for five years.

He doesn’t want Cas—oh god, _Cas_ —to have gotten out, alive, only to be thrown back in.

He should probably—Dean should probably go and talk them out of it, right? It’s his responsibility as a captain. It’s his responsibility as apparently the only sensible person on a ship of idiots who are stumbling open-eyed into a sea of knives on the say-so of someone they can’t even prove doesn’t hate them.

The only sane man left.

Present company—probably—excluded.

Cas hadn’t said anything for or against the mission. Maybe he doesn’t dare contradict anyone yet, or he doesn’t think they’ll listen. Maybe—Dean scowls, he can’t believe he’s even thinking this—maybe Gordon’s right and this is part of some plot, maybe Cas knows this mission’s a deathwish, and he doesn’t care. Maybe he, too, believes in vengeance against the empire. (Dean shouldn’t discount this possibility. Just because Cas is usually sensible doesn’t mean that Dean didn’t find him in the arena, fighting to the death, because he’d burned down a palace without any contingency plans. Maybe Cas is willing to die. Maybe.)

They haven’t had a crew meet, yet. No vote means it’s not binding, even if Sam and Jo have already agreed on a contract with Bela.

Technically, they can still get out of this alive.

So when Cas and Dean arrive at the cabin door, Dean unlocks it and waits till Cas is inside.

Cas cocks his head at him again, as if he wants to confess something, only this time he doesn’t stop himself. “Dean…,” he starts. Swallows. “Dean, there’s something I want to tell you.”

And Dean wants to talk to Cas about whatever it is, he does, especially if it is whatever’s made Cas look wide-eyed and joyful on the way here, and made him jolt whenever their hands had brushed, and then with care and purpose touch his hands back. He does want to talk to Cas.

Unfortunately, he also wants to not get tortured to death, again.

“It’ll keep, Cas, right?” he replies. “I’ll be back in a second. Just have to talk to the knuckleheads about whatever Bela’s planning, alright?”

Of course, Cas obeys. “Yes, Dean,” he replies. “I’ll wait for you.”

Impulsively, Dean strokes the palm of his hand down Cas’ forearm— _“Fucking rapist slime,” the Bela in his head accuses_ —and, without looking at Cas’ reaction, he runs away.

Who to go to first?

Dean doesn’t quite think there’s a chance in hell that his crew will accept him overruling this mission, or even agree with the dangers. He’s not naïve enough to believe in that. The lure Bela’s set is just too good, and hell, it’s not like the empire _hasn’t_ earned their hatred many times over. Gordon’s not the only one to have lost family, after all, even if he’s certainly the most vocal about it and the most ready in burning everything even tangentially related to his Mikeyness to the ground, possibly himself included.

Well, he won’t go to Gordon, then. It’s a waste of footsteps if he can already predict how that’s gonna go. Dean casually sidling up to him, saying, “Hey Gordon, you know how we’re about to get ourselves right in the crosshairs of those people who you want to kill? That have ten million times the ammunition we have? You think maybe we shouldn’t do that?”, and Gordon just grinning, “Finally! Let me sharpen all five of my machetes.”

Dean’s not even sure Kevin would back him up, and his mom isn’t even _dead_. Just… in very deep cover, just like he is, only on Pontus instead of on the Impala. They’d decided it was safer with them apart, since the Intelligence officers all over who are hunting them for accidentally stumbling across sensitive information were going to look for a mother and teen. (Actually, who is Dean kidding, he’s met Linda Tran: She’s probably working to bring the empire down herself, in every way a middle-aged woman former administrator pretending to be a teacher on a backwards little planet can. And her son can be just as stubborn.) Oh Jesus, Linda’s gonna _kill_ him when she finds out he’s gotten her son killed on some fool crusade. Or, in all likelihood she’ll have to settle for spitting on his corpse. Small consolations.

Then there’s Jo, who’s been on his case anyway about Bela, and who probably thinks this is her _opening up to them_ or some kind of bullshit. Charlie, who only sees the best in people, and Dorothy, who doesn’t much care about the logistics of their missions and who’s gonna back up her girlfriend anyway. Sam, who’ll think this is some kind of noble mission, and Ruby who’s a total loose cannon.

There’s no help to be had here.

Victor’s probably gonna disapprove. Good old Victor. Unfortunately, he disapproves of about 90 percent of what they’re doing anyway, and so has little sway with most of the more… _dedicated_ members of the Impala crew. The argument that they’re about to violate some citizen’s human rights has never had much traction with anyone. Sometimes Dean wonders what he sees in them at all, but then he remembers the heavy betrayal in his eyes when they’d met. When Victor was still imperial police, and he and his crew had caught up to Dean. His conviction that it would all be settled in a court of law. The way he’d pleaded with his people to let Nancy go, at least, the girl Dean had been in the process of selling a very discount sack of stolen grain to when they’d been apprehended. To not tear her apart where she stood, with their bare hands. The way he’d raised his gun against his own people, hand held steady by Victor’s bone-deep belief in the right of people for protection and a dignified life. Threatening his own people. Buying Nancy precious seconds to run to the Impala. And then letting Dean go as well, eyes dead with the conformation that Victor had been on the wrong side all along. The bottles of rum afterwards. If Sam gets to him, citing all the ways the new Grace ships will be used to wring commoners dry even more… Just because Victor believes in justice and salvation and mercy doesn't mean he doesn't fight. Most likely, it's even the opposite.

Now, Anna—she’s best placed to realize how fucking stupid it is to antagonize the sleeping lion.

And to Anna he goes.

She’s still in the village hall, evidently making the most of their break—and the most money as well, judging by the pile of denarii next to her on the table. Already, she’s grinning, tapping one of the many black glass pieces she’s captured against the oak of the playing board, eager for her opponent, some unlucky Crunoi villager Dean doesn’t know, to make the next move. There’s a suspicious lack of white pieces off the board.

Dean really should have seen it coming. Anna’s always been good at latrunculi. _Of course_ she was a soldier.

“Dean?” she asks when she notices him, slightly slurring his name.

“Take your time.” Eat, drink, and have fun playing someone for all their money, Dean adds mentally, for I’m about to tell you that in all likelihood we’re going to do something so catastrophically stupid tomorrow that we might as well already be dead. “How wine much have you had?”

“Not too much to beat you blindfolded, if you’re offering.” She snakes one of her pieces forward, and the villager groans. “Just one sec, Captain. Just two moves left.”

The villager apparently agrees, and pushes the pool they’d been playing for over. He looks at Anna, questioning, and she shakes her head. He leaves.

“What’s going on?”

“Bela called.”

“That’s good. We really shouldn’t keep doing business with Crowley, I talked with Ruby and how he treated her—”

“Bela called,” Dean says insistently. “She wants us to rob Tripolitania shipyard.”

It takes a second to sink in, then, “She can’t sell Grace ships.”

“Exactly.”

“She wants—”

“She wants civil war, I think. She’s promising us some crew of her own—Bela doesn’t _have_ any crew—someone’s supposed to meet us in a bar there, really secretive.”

“So you think she wants… revenge?” Anna shakes her head, as if to clear it. “She’s never been overly fond of the empire, I’ve told you, but she can’t be stupid enough to think she’ll get away with it.”

“I think _she’ll_ get away with it.”

“You think it’s a set-up,” Anna says.

“Yeah. Revenge—against who? She _hates_ me, Anna, okay? If she plays her cards right… There’s nothing connecting her to us, and there's no way we’re going to match the empire in a show of strength. Yes, we’ve survived up until now, but that’s just dumb luck. We haven’t merited any attention beyond general ‘criminal scum’ levels. After we’ve robbed Tripolitania, that is going to change, they’re going to be on our heels like half-starved hyenas.”

“They’ve already been following us, Dean,” Anna replies. “We haven’t just been criminal scum for weeks. Check Charlie’s statistics if you don’t believe me, after Bithynia we’ve had to make 320 percent more jumps than baseline, to avoid incoming law enforcement. Trend rising, though there’s not enough data yet, might be a fluctuation.”

“Wh—”

“I convinced Charlie not to say anything because I didn’t want Castiel to get blamed, but it’s obvious. They’re taking his blasphemy seriously. Can’t have unpeople getting the wrong ideas. Now, we can either keep on as usual, and hope our luck holds. Until they get their new Grace ships, twice as fast and with better locating equipment to boot. And they catch us. Or…” She raps on the table for emphasis, nearly knocking over her glass: the only thing betraying her tipsy state in the face of her conviction. “Or we can make sure they never _get_ those ships in the first place, and survive.”

It’s official: Only. Sensible. Man.

~

By the time Dean returns to the cabin, Cas is already fast asleep.

The next morning, he appears to have thought better of what he’d wanted to talk to Dean about.

~

Most of the crew are already on the Impala now, ready for lift-off, having worked through the heavy noon sun to get her refuelled and filled up with food for the next stretch of their journey. Dean hasn’t gone to the crew meet, still angry, but Sam’s told him how it went. “They’re all ready,” he’d said, eyes shining. “Ready to make a difference in this dangerous unjust world. Ready to get slaughtered for cash and a brief feeling of satisfied superiority.” (Okay, Dean’s paraphrasing slightly here.)

They’re only waiting for the last straggler, and here she is: Down the street, a door opens, and Cassie and Lisa walk out, arm in arm.

“… call, okay?” Lisa’s saying when they get within earshot. “I just got the encryption of our vid channel upgraded, Charlie says it’s almost completely impossible to crack now.”

“Only every night.” Cassie smiles. “8 Roman Standard Time, sharp. Like I’ve been doing for the last six years, babe. I’ll go to the market and get you your spices as well, no need to write me memos.”

(Dean feels for them, he really does. He doesn’t know how he could bear it if his family didn’t live on the Impala.)

“No memos? Are you sure?” Lisa exclaims, mock-hurt. “I seem to remember you liked them. ‘Most romantic gesture of my life,’ was that all a lie!”

“Those memos weren’t _grocery lists_!”

(Too much distance. That’s why they broke up back then, Dean remembers, him and Lisa. They’d tried, so hard, but there’d been so much to do and then he’d missed a check-in call and then another… Lisa hadn’t minded so much, he remembers, but in the end they’d both agreed it wasn’t working out.)

“And take care of Ben, okay? Haruspex is not a viable career move, no matter if it looks cool on TV. It’s gross!”

Lisa raises an eyebrow and says, “So I should tell him to become a star jockey instead?”

“No, don’t you dare!” Cassie pulls a face, and then laughs. “Navigators are much classier!”

"So navigate yourself into my vicinity more often, sailor."

Cassie laughs, and kisses her.

(But something good had come out of it anyway, so it doesn’t matter. He’d gotten to know Lisa very well, what she’s looking for in a partner. And when he’d realized his first flame was just the woman… It was very, very easy to pretend he needed two sous-chefs to cook their victory meal after the Lycia heist and then slowly, slowly back out of the kitchen. Before even putting the first pan on the fire.

They hadn’t even noticed.)

Lisa runs her hand through Cassie’s hair, pulling her closer, forehead to forehead. “Come back to me, Cassie, please,” she whispers. “The embargo’s not so bad now. The tribute’s been lowered to a third of the harvest as well. You don’t need... We—you, me, Ben—we can _survive_ , even without your supply runs.”

Cassie kisses her again, slowly, and then opens her eyes. “I will be safe, I promise.”

“I know it’s important, what you’re doing. But I don’t—I just want you back alive. So if you get a bad feeling, if _anything_ , leave, please. Come back to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise! This story isn't dead yet! I do still know where it's going and would very much like to get there.
> 
> Not completely happy with this... But I wanted to include those bits, and they fit nowhere in the two-chapter arc that comes next. My mind keeps insisting the story's better if it's more ensemble cast-ish and then my own narrating constraints are working against me, it's seriously hard to have tender moments not involving pov characters without making Dean look like he's eavesdropping. I hope it comes across okay. And thanks to ExpatGirl who suggested, _I would love it if they both dated Dean and then Dean was like, "You know, this isn't working out between us, but there's someone I think you should meet."_
> 
> Roman game boards have been found as far as England and North Africa because soldiers enjoyed gambling so much. Latrunculi's a real game, though no-one's 100% sure how it was played, in spite of inspiring descriptions such as this one by Laus Pisonis (1st century CE): "What counter [of yours] though doomed to die has not destroyed its foe? Your battle line joins combat in a thousand ways: that counter, flying from a pursuer, itself makes a capture; another, which stood at a vantage point, comes from a position far retired; this one dares to trust itself to the struggle, and deceives an enemy advancing on its prey; that one risks dangerous traps, and, apparently entrapped itself, counter traps two opponents; this one is advanced to greater things, so that when the formation is broken, it may quickly burst into the columns, and so that, when the rampart is overthrown, it may devastate the closed walls. Meanwhile, however keenly the battle rages with cut-up soldiers, you conquer with a formation that is full, or bereft of only a few soldiers, and each of your hands rattles with its band of captives."
> 
> Chapter title from the Delays song.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


End file.
